Mazie Louise Montgomery

2009-05-27T13:46:00.003-04:00

a delightful place
finds us in the vastness
of the darkened sky:
the solitary architecture of the trees,
the changing coloration of the stars,
the twinkling of the lights,
the slender shape of my hips
with their complicated rigging
to which your body lends these
sometimes harmonious, lazy half-circles
from the palm of your hand, warm
and sometimes hidden,
to serve within my soul a taste,
but only just so,
for the man who of mysterious pleasure
in contemplating, while lying
on my bed and resting on his elbows
still has the strength of will
to know my desire.

BETTER BIRDS

2009-04-25T20:57:00.007-04:00

There are birds on the bird feeder. And we are excited.

We have bought seed.

We have hung small houses made of plastic and large houses made of cedar from black metal poles with graceful arms that curve and swirl and twist.

We have read books. They have told us what to do.

We have seen a cardinal, bright red. And then a robin. And then more robins. And then doves and then more doves and then blue jays.

We have put seed on the sidewalk for the cardinals and thrown our strawberry tops into the grass for the catbirds and we have moved an antique cement bird bath just near it all. And we have waited patiently.

We have waited so patiently at the glass door. Then by the window in the living room and then too at the windows from the second floor looking down at the plastic feeders and the cedar feeders and the strawberry tops and the old cement bird bath sitting just near.

We have told each other: stop talking, be still, stop moving, sit down, I can't see.

We have put a plastic container meant to hold sandwiches in the bird bath because it holds water and the antique cement bird bath does not.

We have bought journals and drawn pictures of cardinals and blue jays and some bird we did not know that turned out to be a sparrow.

We have bought more books: books that identify the birds and books that make the songs of birds and books that tell how to attract more birds. Better birds.

We have wanted better birds.

We will always want

better birds.

2009-04-20T10:37:00.009-04:00

There was something in the way she said it, when she said it, like she never really meant to say it and did so only by accident, some kind of accidental slip-of-the-tongue where she thought she was saying, "These enchiladas are really good," but instead she said, "I'm pregnant," and when she said it, felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth but at the same time felt her mouth fill with saliva as if she were holding a spoon full of peanut butter in her mouth.

She did not like the feeling.

Her pants were tight.

A waiter walked by and patted her on the shoulder, "Anything else amiga?"

Outside, a seagull landed on a black, wrought-iron table and flapped its wings.

Yes, she thought. I want to be an animal in the forest. Some sort of den-living, hibernating animal that doesn't have to ever say, "I'm pregnant," to anyone. But nothing scary or intimidating. A calm, peaceful, den-living hibernating animal that lived in the hard-to-reach polar regions and ate cranberries almost exclusively.

"I read somewhere that you can really only tell that a goat is pregnant in its final six weeks," she said.

He looked uncomfortable in a way that made her feel powerful.

"I bring you sweat tea," he said.

He ran away.

Other waiters looked from around the corner and spoke Spanish loudly.

They pointed. She looked away and pretended to be somewhere fun and exciting though she could not think of a particular fun and exciting place so she just thought the following thought over and over again: I am some place fun and exciting, I am some place fun and exciting.

The fun and exciting place never appeared as an image, only a concept.

She smiled to herself.

The waiter appeared with a sweat tea and handed her a straw from the pocket of his apron. There were now three on the table, all unwrapped and unused.

She thought of making a house of drinking straws. A conceptual house. She put the straws in her purse and left the table.

At the register she put twenty five cents in a box wrapped with Christmas paper and took a chocolate mint from an old ashtray converted to a candy dish.

The cashier looked at her blindly and punched numerical keys covered with dirty plastic.

Outside, the wind brushed her cheeks as she walked to the car.

The Number 3

2009-04-14T12:45:00.005-04:00

The number 3 is either a complete idiot, or a genius.

The number 3 has either no control, not even a little, over my life, or is in complete control and makes me only feel as if I have some control because the number 3 has a great sense of humor and likes to jump my shit.

The number 3 is very shifty, I think.

The number 3 shared me a secret.

Did the number 3 mean to share me this secret? Or did the number 3 confuse my house with another? Because in this neighborhood they all pretty much look the same.

Brick veneer. Two story. White staircase leading to the front yard.

I can see how the number 3 might get confused.

And now I am worried. If the number 3 did not mean to share me this secret, and this is someone else's secret, not mine, will the number 3 take the secret away, or let me keep it.

I can take good care of the secret. I am older now.

I hope it stays.

EMPTY SOUP CAN

2009-04-01T12:51:00.006-04:00

I want to live inside an empty soup, the label half-torn on the outside from cold rainwater.

I want the lip of the can to be rusty and sharp, so that people can't jump over the edge to steal my lawnmower or my mother's diamond engagement ring.

I want the inside to be fire retardant, but not fire-proof, because some things are meant to burn.

I want the inside to be just-small-and-quaint-enough to be not small and not quaint and the interior designed by someone famous for not being famous.

And if people walk by, not noticing the empty soup can in any particular fashion, smacking their heels upon the pavement in a click-clack fashion

and thinking of what they might have left unplugged or plugged, unplugged or plugged,

unplugged or dammittohellandbackagain

like a coffee pot,

or a laptop computer,

and then rushing home to find out which was it if either,

I will be happy.

2009-04-01T12:40:00.002-04:00

I am doing much better now.

I am no longer angry.

I am no longer attached
to those things

that now are just memories
made of charcoal
and dust.

I am no longer a moose
walking clumsy.

2009-03-29T20:59:00.007-04:00

It's been two weeks and three days since my house burned down.

In that time I have been to work three days.

I hate work. I hated it before the fire. And now it just takes the smallest thing to set me off. I fuss at the kids. Sit down. Stop talking. Stop looking at me. Stop breathing.

All I need is the smallest excuse to stay home.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe from thinking about thinking about the house and what I think I can still save.

I still think I can save things.

I hate the way people are looking at me at work.

"Look, it's her, the one who lost everything."

People ask me what size clothing I wear.

They ask what size my daughter wears.

I say, "We are fine, really."

But really, we are not.

She cries a lot, my daughter.

I have nightmares.

I have one pair of shoes.

She doesn't want to be left alone.

I don't want to be left alone.

Our little green house is gone.

I want to take her away somewhere.

Just anywhere else.

Where there is nothing to think about saving.

My House on Johnson Street

2009-03-26T11:40:00.003-04:00

I started writing a poem.
This was two weeks ago exactly.
I thought of these words:
blue
apples
cement truck
and
sunshine.
I thought they were good enough words.
But not special enough words.
Not extraordinary enough words.
So I put blue, apples, cement truck and sunshine
in a suitcase in the attic of my
green house.
Then my green house caught fire
and burned to the ground
and took with it
the suitcase full of
blue
apples
cement truck
and sunshine.
For the last week, I have thought
of new words, but these new words
I can't share with you
because they are
not near as good enough as blue
not near as special enough as apples
and
not nearly as extraordinary enough as cement truck
as those words,
like sunshine,
burned in the black zippered suitcase
in the attic
of my green house
on Johnson Street.

Lydia Copeland Gwyn

2009-03-02T11:53:00.010-05:00

My good friend Lydia Gwyn has published a book. It it is delicious. She is such a good writer. I knew that when we were at USM together, earning English degrees that would one day make us feel good about ourselves but earn us no money.

You can find the book here: Lydia Copeland's Book, Haircut Stories

I like this story very much. I like fucky fried chicken, which is something she wrote.

She also wrote, "My skin is always thirsty." I like that.

Here are some other things she wrote that I like:

1.we were salty and warm
2. I will hear the houses settling with their bodies
3. Learn to have hate in your heart. Learn to hate nature, sonnets, and songbirds, and thin-faced old ladies with good intentions

I don't say that I like things when I don't.

You can find links to her published works at her blog, which is called The Gwyn Family Blog

2009-03-02T10:16:00.001-05:00

Did I mention I am starting an independent school? My goal is distance education for grades 3-12.

Take a look here:

Miller Academy of Science and Technology

but instead he could do nothing more than wait

2009-02-28T08:04:00.002-05:00

There was a grain of sand. This grain of sand was out of place, having once been happily settled by the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, but now living a haphazard existence in the front yard of a suburban community (in the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina), having been moved into his new environment by the shaking of a "Spiderman" beach towel, and now sliding, slowly, down a hillside toward a drainage canal that would eventually lead to a sewer line underneath the suburban community that was also inhabited by groundhogs.

This grain of sand had one wish before sliding into the "Hades of Groundhogs" as the kids of the neighborhood called it, and that was to star in a Mel Gibson movie that depicted the life of a grain of sand sliding down a hillside, using, of course, the ancient native language of sand, subtitled in Spanish and funded by a federal NCLB grant for English language learners whose first language is not English.

Beside this grain of sand was another grain of sand and in fact hundreds maybe thousands of grains of sand having all themselves been deposited by the "Spiderman" beach towel on the same day and in the same haphazard manner by a seven year old boy with freckles on his nose and cheeks.

"Your dream is pathetic," said grain of sand number 1,547. "Mel Gibson doesn't even make movies anymore."

"I only need his name," said the grain of sand sliding down the hillside with a dream to act in a Mel Gibson movie.

"He doesn't have a name anymore," said grain of sand number 6. "Not since that thing with the alcohol and the Jewish cop."

"Yeah, that was pretty dumb," said grain of sand number 1,547. "But his mug shot was funny."

"He has a name by way of not having a name," said the grain of sand sliding down the hillside with a dream to act in a Mel Gibson movie.

"You don't have time to be so post-modern," said grain of sand number 6.

"Yeah," said grain of sand number 1,547. "You sound like my high school English teacher."

The grain of sand sliding down the hillside with a dream to act in a Mel Gibson movie wished that he had legs so he could walk away from all the other grains of sand and live his own life, the way he wanted to live, dreaming of staring in a Mel Gibson movie without being "brought down" by all the other grains of sand, but instead he could do nothing more than wait for the next rain, and hope that his rivulet took him far enough away from grains number 6 and 1,547 that he could at least experience some moment of tranquility and silence before sliding, fatefully, into the "Hades of Groundhogs" in the sewer line beneath the suburban community.

The First Issue

2009-02-25T22:09:00.001-05:00

The very first issue of DICEY BROWN magazine.

Spring 2002

TWO VERSIONS

2009-02-25T09:03:00.004-05:00

blah blah blah

she says

and I listen

like a robot trying
to do something
it has been programmed
not to do

and then she whispers
in my ear
and

releases the rarely mentioned

as if by the force of the wind

and I think
I might

shiver.

and then...

She talked
and he was tired
but he listened anyway
and he tried hard
even though his body said
go to sleep
or watch tv
or do anything else
that doesn't require thought
because he loved her
and he wanted
to be attentive
and loving
and giving
and he started to close
his eyes
and he started to think
about work
and then she whispered
something
in his ear
something not very important
that seemed so very important
for having been whispered
and every thing else
in the world
fell away
and he shivered.

2009-02-24T20:08:00.001-05:00

blah
blah blah
blah blah blah
blah
and then she whispered
in my ear

and i thought
i might shiver

2009-02-24T19:12:00.002-05:00

I have been away. But now I am back and taking care of business.

New post at Dicey Brown Magazine

2009-01-22T12:04:00.003-05:00

Little by little,
the antelope turns
into the giraffe,

hand in hand
with my increase
in knowledge
concerning
the internal chemistry
of the cell.

Little by little
my heart
becomes cross
pollinated
with the tall
pea plant,

a major difficulty
that stands
in the way
of all theories
of evolution

in which I believe
to be true.

2009-01-15T11:13:00.001-05:00

BANK ROBBERY

I do not know what to say. Which is often the case. But often I talk anyway. Mostly to myself. Sometimes to my husband. My daughter often talks to me but I don't listen. I try not to listen. Sometimes I hear. But when I hear, I am conscious of the fact that I am not listening. Which is frustrating. I am often frustrated. I am often hearing when I am not listening and frustrated by the thought that I might have to think about what I am hearing when I am frustrated and not listening. In order to keep from being frustrated, I talk. Here are some of the things I talk about: cold weather; Afghanistan (but not the war); cell phone technology; nationalism; global protectionism; and video documentaries. I am making a video documentary. I haven't actually started filming, which is frustrating because it is all in my head. It will be a ground breaking IMAX® film about whales. Drama, joy, poetry. All that. I think everything would be more interesting if it were considered after watching this documentary. That is, if I wanted to talk about my hands or my feet or my head, my conversation would be more interesting if I considered my hands or my feet or my head in relation to my documentary about whales. This consideration will make it easier to listen to people when they talk. Because everyone likes whales. But it's all still in the developmental stage. Which is frustrating. My husband says, "make a movie about a bank robbery in which two people fall in love and end up killing each other in the end." They literally kill each other. Not figuratively. My daughter says, "make a movie about two teenagers who fall in love and kill their parents in the end." They also literally kill their parents. Not figuratively. I thought all three ideas could be combined into one. A woman, frustrated by too much talking tries to escape the world by making a documentary about whales. To make the movie she is forced to rob a bank. While committing the crime she falls in love with the police officer who responds to the scene. He also falls in love with her. They shoot each other out of frustration. Gunfire erupts from every direction. In the confusion, two teenagers who were there (with their parents) decide to kill their parents, hoping that people will think the police killed them by accident. It is problematic, I know. Which is frustrating.

LIFE STORY OF A MOOSE

2008-12-28T12:08:00.010-05:00

BACKGROUND

This is the life story of a moose. Which is to say that it is a story of a life spent in one three places in alternating turns of importance:
1)The grocery store,
2)The bedroom,
3)The car.

This is the life story of a particular moose that the author will now refer to as "Moose" with a capital "M" as if Moose is both her proper name and the description of what she is, body and soul.

This particular moose is female and has aged 40 years in a typical moose life which means her mind is now equivalent to a twelve-year-old human.

There is a twelve-year-old human in the life story of Moose who the author will now refer to as "Human" with a capital "H" as if Human is both her proper name and the description of what she is, body and soul.

Moose is a poetic genius but a lethargic one and often needs the help of situational comedy television, the Internet, People magazine and TMZ to define her genius.

Human is an undiscovered mathematical genius who will one day increase the world's understanding of matter (broadly construed), and as time allows, the less immediate things in the universe, such as: the planet Jupiter, nuclear fission, the sun, and isotopic abundances of elements in space. But for now Human spends too much time texting her friends about mint-flavored chewing gum and watching Disney-esque situational television comedies.

For most of her life, Moose considered her life to be a bit of an allegorical stretch, and thought it tended to get distracting. Mostly because, in examples like this, Moose does nothing moose-like except, well, claim to be a moose.

She considered it a difficult road to travel, and thought most people in life, and in particular her life, the life she found most interesting, would never understand why it was necessary to be exceedingly anthropomorphized, and in her modest size and animalness deal with real world problems like: manacing kitties, being tossed into a washing machine, and findind suitable and sustainable marsh grass to feed herself.

Never-the-less, she prevailed.

2008-12-23T20:11:00.010-05:00

It starts in the mall. Not THE mall, but A mall. I don't know where. But it feels familiar. A mall that I both know and don't know at the same time. Not a mall that I could say to my family, "I'm going to THE mall," and they'd know which one I was talking about but a mall that feels familiar. Like some place you know from your childhood by the feel and smell of it but not the sight. That sort of thing.

I'm walking around. I'm shopping. I'm having fun.

While I'm shopping I know that in reality I don't like to shop but still I'm having fun. That is, in the dream I am aware that in my normal awakened state I do not like to shop but in the dream I am having fun while at the same time shopping and knowing that if I were awake I would not be having fun at all. Also I am aware that I am in a mall that feels familiar but is one that I do not know. It feels a little like Fayettville, North Carolina. But I can't be sure.

But still, I'm walking around and having fun.

Then a man who has been stalking me for about three years shows up behind me on ice skates. There is no ice in the mall but the floor of the mall becomes a surface conducive to ice skating. As if it were ice. But not.

Then I become angry because the stalker is interrupting the fun that I would normally not be having if I were not dreaming because I hate shopping in a mall that feels and smells familiar and maybe a little like Fayettville, North Carolina but I can't be sure.

Then I become panicked because the stalker is much faster than me because he is on skates.

Then my husband wakes me up. The room is dark.

"You were having a nightmare," he says.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"You were making this funny whining sound," he says.

"What did it sound like?" I ask.

He makes the sound, which does sound something like a person having a bad dream but unnatural for him to make.

I make a face with my eyebrows that makes the half-inch vertical wrinkle above my nose apear.

"I was at a mall," I say.

"I could see how you wouldn't like that," he says.

It is four in the morning. We talk for a while about the Christmas lights in our yard, and how the animated deer's head is no longer lit but yet the body still is, so at night, passers-by, powered by the movement of their cars, see only a lighted animal torso, and how that is truly a christmas miracle.

2008-12-23T12:27:00.006-05:00

I have had a daughter for twelve years. She is nice to have around. She says funny things. She hugs me alot. Sometimes too much. And I have to say, "Okay, get off me now." And she talks alot. Sometimes too much. And like the hugging I have to say, "Okay, stop talking now."

I've noticed there are places where you can say, "Stop talking now," to your child and people will thank you for it. And there are other places where people will look at you strangely when you say, "Stop talking now." Like you are supposed to like the sound of your kid's voice at this place, or you are supposed to think your kid is some kind of a poetic genesis and to tell your kid to stop talking is like sacrilage.

I can't think of these places right now, but I'm sure it will come to me, and I will make some grand, univeral point about childrearing that everyone will understand.

I wonder sometimes if my daughter of twelve years will like me when she is grown. She likes me now, but a lot of things can happen in between now and then. What I'm saying is, there is still time to fuck things up I think, to the point that she will not like me in six years.

I think she is happy for the most part. She has her own computer, an electric guitar, a DVD player, and a pair of Sperry's and a cell phone. Although she doesn't have cable or Internet. Sometimes I feel guilty about this. Sometimes I think she needs exposure to these things to be properly nutured into adulthood. Sometimes I think, how will she create small talk at wine and cheese parties when she is older if she has not been reared watching the National Geographic Chanel and Animal Planet and Nickalodeon. But I do get over it quickly.

I liked my daughter when she was a baby. She was very pretty and she smiled a lot. Sometimes I think I would like to have another baby but it seems so much trouble. She couldn't do much on her own and she was very heavy to carry around. Then when she learned to walk she did things to cause the need for a call to The Poison Control Center and the hospital emergency room. They were very helpful. It turns out a child has to eat a considerable amount of toothpaste and cigarette butts to actually cause themselves harm. Also, if you hold a cut above your head, it will eventually stop bleeding.

My daughter is away for Christmas. She is with her father. I feel like I should feel guilty for not mouring her absence, but I do not. Not so far, anyway. I am enjoying the silence, the clean house, the hot water, and the absence of dirty dishes under the bed and pepperoni on the carpet in my room.

When my daughter is away I buy things with her in mind. Sometimes I remember to give them to her, sometimes I forget and leave them in the closet, still in the bag, for maybe a month or so, and then she will find them and say," what's this?" and I wil say, "Oh, yeah..."

This Christmas I bought two Christmas movies that I want to watch with her. They are both very funny. I have watched both of them twice already. So when she returns, I will have the funniest parts memorized, and when we are watching them together I can say, "Watch this, you're going to love this part," and we can laugh together until I have had enough and say, "Okay, stop laughing now."

GIRL, NOT FALLING

2008-12-16T16:12:00.010-05:00

I am bored with many things these days, myself included. I walk around the block at night just to encourage some kind of trouble, but nothing happens.

I speed down the street with my lights off. Nothing.

I drive with an expired sticker on my license plate since February of last year. Again, nothing.

My husband buys me a skateboard for Christmas.

I re-learn tricks from my childhood. I can jump things, like a pine cone, or a soda can, or the white lines on the basketball court at the park near our house.

My step-son follows close behind me on his scooter. He is seven. He falls many times trying to jump over the pine cone and the coke can and the white lines on the basketball court. He lays on the driveway in the fetal position, holding his legs to his chest. "Ow," he says softly. "Ow, ow, ow."

There is a place on his ankle where the skin has been worn off from the back wheel. He shows it to me. It is like a merit badge, or a saved piece of Christmas candy, the wrapper still shining and golden.

I speed around the orange cones I set up in the driveway in a smooth "S" shape while my chicken casserole cooks in the oven, my hands held together behind my back.

My head sweats under my helmet, making my hair wet.

I do not flail my hands or arms in a semi-coherant state of balance. I am completely poised and relaxed. I lean backward, inviting a feeling of weightlessness in my stomach. I do not fall.

Not even once.

But I know it will happen. It must. I must.

And the suspense of when is killing me.

2008-11-05T10:49:00.018-05:00

I am deep in thought today.

Hamsters are fragile creatures, kind of like people.

We had a hamster named Cookie at my house. It belonged to my daughter. One day it just died. I think maybe the cat scared it to death. Or my daughter forgot to clean its cage for too long and it got some kind of terrible hamster disease. Either way, she cried and I felt terrible. It's legs were sticking straight up in the air, like a cartoon hamster but real. We burried it in the back yard. My daughter put a big rock over the grave. Then flowers. Then a giant cross made of scrap wood she found in the shed.

Then one day I found the cat tossing a mouse back and forth. The mouse squealed in fear. I was horrified.

I found an empty flower pot and caught the mouse. The cat was very dissapointed but I felt good. A plan formed in my mind. A plan of redemption. I would keep the mouse as a pet. I would be a hero in my daughter's eyes and a hero to the mouse and I wouldn't have to spend 15 dollars on another hamster that would just die again and force me to live with another giant cross in my back yard.

I put the mouse in the hamster's glass cage that had once held our goldfish, also now burried in the back yard. I gave the mouse a spinning wheel and a water bottle and a tiny bowl to hold food.

It was a miracle plan. I was helping the mouse AND my daughter. I was saving the mouse from certain death and giving my daughter a new rodent-type pet that would surely be more hardy than a store-bought one, since it came from nature.

My husband said I was defying the natural world. My husband likes to disuade me from viewing nature as anything but raw and untamed and disobedient to the will of man. "Nature isn't cute," he said. "Nature will find a way to take back the mouse," he said. "That mouse's destiny is death by the claw of the cat, not a life lived in a glass aquarium," he said.

I disagreed.

It was brilliance. The mouse ran on the silver spinning hamster wheel. The mouse ran the length of the kitchen floor in a clear plastic hamster ball. The mouse ate the hamster food. My daughter made a "tube house" for the mouse out of toilet paper rolls. The mouse was cute. Nature had provided us with a pet.

But Nature also provided the mouse with the ability to jump very high with great skill and the mouse soon freed himself from the hamster's glass aquarium through a two-inch hole in the hood of the aquarium that my daughter forgot to cover with the brick that I had so conveniently provided.

My husband was winning. Nature was winning. Destiny was reclaiming the mouse.

But I could still win. I could still recapture the mouse, put it back in the cage, and all would go back to normal.

Then the mouse ran from the living room to the kitchen for about a week. Every time my daughter saw it, she screamed. Every time I tried to catch it, I failed.

Then the mouse lived behind the garbage can for another week. Every time my daughter saw it, she screamed. Every time I tried to catch it, I failed.

Then the mouse lived under my daughter's bed for a week and chewed up all the clothing she had hidden under there the last time I had said, "Clean your room right now young lady."

Her favorite jeans. A pair of "toe" socks. A sweater. Gone.

When my daughter saw her jeans, she screamed. "I want the mouse gone," she said. "Put out a trap."

I felt terrible. I delayed. I let the mouse scamper back and forth for another week. Nature would not win. My husband would not win.

Then the mouse fell silent for a week and my daughter said, "I think the mouse is gone."

Then a few days later the cat left the dead body of the mouse on the front porch, in front of the door, on the "welcome" mat I bought for 20 dollars from Linens and Things when we first moved into the house.

The mouse had met his destiny.

My husband had won. Nature had won. The cat had won.

My daughter and I stepped over the carcass, saying nothing. Its legs stood straight up in the air, like a cartoon mouse but real.

2008-11-04T10:01:00.010-05:00

The disenfranchised avocado stood in line waiting to vote.

Since most people believed she wasn't green enough to be rightfully disenfranchised, and was most probably rather a victim of unintentional disenfranchisement because of the small number of immigrant avacados living on the Western coast of Florida, she wore a t-shirt that read: It Is Never Too Late for Transparency, a reference to a 46-page pre-election observation report published in 2004 by the Fair Election International (FEI) that, quite frankly, no one understood.

A woman behind the disenfranchised avocado trembled with excitement in the most socially responsible manner possible.

"Isn't this exciting," she breathed over the disenfranchised avocado's shoulder.

"I am only here to protect the integrity of the election and promote public awareness and participation in the electoral process," the avocado said.

The woman shifted her glasses higher on her cheeks and smiled. "It's so exciting," she breathed.

The disenfranchised avacado lost herself in a daydream of self indulgence and meaninglessness. If I cut myself up into tiny pieces, and blend myself into a nice guacamole, she thought, I could poison myself in a socially responsible manner and place myself on a "snack" table at a popular political after-party, enabling me to make a political statement about how disenfranshised I am.

"Move ahead," said the man standing behind her in line.

The disenfranchised avacado shuffled slowly ahead, certain of her place in history in the most historic election in history.

2008-11-03T11:01:00.014-05:00

I have almost eaten an entire bag of mini carrots today. It is eleven o'clock. I started eaing them at eight o'clock. In three hours I have eaten almost a pound of mini carrots.

I have decided to vote for the candidate who supports mini-carrots. And I mean that in the vaugest way possible. He has to "support" mini carrots. He has to be willing to provide a bailout plan for mini-carrots if they fail.

Specifically, he must be willing to provide an injection of liquidity to all bankrupt or nearly bankrupt mini-carrot entities.

The candidate I support must be orange in color, crispy in texture and sweet in flavor.

He must also be peeled. And he must be raw, firm, smooth-skinned, straight-shaped and well-colored with no blemishes.

He must not be chopped, boiled, fried, steamed, or cooked into any soup, stew, or baby food.

He must neither be a independent nor nonpartisan.

And He must be devoted to advanced carrot research as it relates to international diplomacy, public education on international carrot affairs as they relate to a one pound bag of crispy goodness, and foreign policy issues as they relate to a Canadian perspective.

That is a candidate I could support.

2008-10-31T21:17:00.006-04:00

I am a commie socialist stain. I am an ICBM, that has been launched by IRAN toward NEW GUINEA. I am depressed, but in a way that makes me seem very with it. I am a neatly drawn cartoon animal realizing the enormity of the universe. I am a skirt on a woman who likes pants and a pair of pants on a man who wants to be a woman, which is to say that I am very with it. I know how to say "go to shit" in Spanish. I tell my students I am an ICBM headed toward self destruction. They look at me in a way that says we are not listening no matter what you say. I am an ICBM pretending to be John McCain pretending to like Sarah Palin pretending to like "small town" America. I am heading toward NEW GUINEA from IRAN in a way that says I am "seriously" with it.

2008-10-30T16:02:00.008-04:00

I would like to be something interesting. I would like to own interesting shoes and have an interesting job where people don't ask me things like, "Why are you in here?" or tell me things like, "This area is restricted."

I would like to be a neatly drawn cartoon animal who has just discovered the weight of the universe without really understanding the universe.

My job is really boring but at least I can devote large amounts of time imagining myself a neatly draw cartoon animal without anyone jumping my shit.

I really do not like the pants I am wearing today. If I had better pants I would be better at most things I think. Pants are the new holistic belief system soon to be adopted by all properly eclectic believers.

My husband is from Philadelphia. He used to be a carpenter in Philadelphia but now he is an engineer from North Carolina. Being from Philadelphia would be interesting. I am from Alabama and this only makes me occasionally speak with an accent when I am angry or drunk. It does not make me interesting.

My husband has pants that make him interesting. And when he wears them, he is better at most things.

2008-10-30T15:47:00.004-04:00

I would like to accomplish something meaningful today. It is almost four in the afternoon and I can't leave work until five and then I will go to bed at ten so that leaves maybe five hours for the meaningful activity. Minus time to drive home. Plus I want to take a bath. Three hours. I am starting to feel the crushing weight of wanting to accomplish something meaningful but thinking it an impossibility. Unless it were an accident. I could accidentally accomplish something meaningful. I could stumble upon a turtle in the road and help it across. Or I could imagine it. If thinking is being. If you believe that kind of thing. Then I could imagine I have accomplished something meaningful. Like I imagine that I found a turtle and helped it across the road. But I think I would just get off track and imagaine myself as a hand-drawn animal looking like I just realized the soul-crushing weight of the universe or something.

2008-10-30T10:41:00.000-04:00

It has gotten cold so my asthma is starting to hurt. I do not feel well.

A HEAD THROWN IN NEED a poem for my husband

2008-10-28T10:54:00.019-04:00

This is the justification, an organized structure, the evidence of the truth between you and I. It is the touching of my lips to something real and lasting; something existing long before the dinosaurs or the sharks or the bony fish in the rivers and lakes; something not nearly as hard as rock or bone but connected, like the parts of a skeleton, floating in fibrous tissue and swimming like a predator, longing, hunting; the common and the aggressive, both waiting for a head thrown in need or a flash of teeth, a back arched and flexing; both waiting for the tiny bits of plankton and small animals from the water, warm as they swim with open mouths. Waiting, for proof of the antiquity of love and the basis for life on earth; the small and fragile bodies composed of cosmic grains and frozen gases; the existence of general uniformity and light in the heat of our kiss and the dust of stars.

2008-10-28T09:33:00.006-04:00

I am lonely.

It is too cold in my classroom.

The cold makes my nose run.

The sun is bright.

My window is cold.

The sky is very blue.

Like the blue of a flower you only see every once in a while and seems like a color that does not exist but does.

Like a window that steams against the heat of your palm.

Like a sun that makes your eyes lonely for tears.

Like a nose that belongs to a five year old child.

Like a classroom that is at the end of a long hallway.

Like a someone who misses his touch on the curve of her back.

2008-10-28T09:21:00.002-04:00

For the past four years I taught elementary school. Now I am teaching high school. Here are some of the differences I see in the students:

High school students are much taller.

More high school students get pregnant.

2008-10-21T08:20:00.004-04:00

I am a teacher. I like children most of the time. But I don't understand why they have to be such a pain.

Okay, that's not true. I do understand.

They can only advocate for themselves by being a pain. Baby sceam, baby get bottle. I get it.

But they could tone it down a notch. I mean, do they have to be so incredibly painful? I could get so much more done if they would stop all the laughing and giggling and whispering and dropping Skittles on the floor in the hallway. Because then you step on them and they stick to the bottom of your shoe.

And then there's the fighting and the crying, which is kind of worse than the laughing and giggling and whispering. Especially when there is blood involved because the sight of blood makes me sick to my stomach. This is what I'm talking about. They are so inconsiderate these children. They know I get sick at the sight of blood and yet they insist on beating the shit out of each other right in front of me.

And then they expect me to break it up and be all like 'be a grown up' about it but what I do instead is scream and throw my hands up and wait for the wrestling coach to hold one of them down on the floor in a kind of body-headlock thing that looks particularly painful but somewhat comical. kind of like a squashed Skittle on the bottom of your shoe.

2008-09-23T09:50:00.006-04:00

The tiny robot ant sat at her desk eating a snack of dried cranberries, peanut butter and cheese crackers, sugar free chocolate pudding, and a diet off-brand soda meant to taste like Dr. Pepper.

A human being appeared. "I would like to hug you," said the human being, "But I'm afraid I would crush you."

"Hug me and I will spew tiny robot ant venom into your leg," said the tiny robot ant.

"Will it hurt?" asked the human being.

"Yes, very much," said the tiny robot ant. "And then I will die from having given all of my energy to that one task."

"Oh," said the human being. "Then it hardly seems worth it."

"I know," said the tiny robot ant. "But you're going to do it anyway, aren't you?"

"I was thinking of it," said the human being.

The tiny robot ant sighed. "Why do human beings always think of me as a male?"

"You are not the queen," said the human being.

"But I feel like a woman," said the tiny robot ant.

"Life is simple," said the human being. "I am a woman and you are a man."

"It is confusing," said the tiny robot ant. "And hardly simple. I have moments of unfaltering confidence, stuck between long periods of uncertainty and panic."

"Let's hug," said the human being.

The tiny robot ant was resolute. She tried to smile but was not entirely successful. She made a face looking more like a woman running to catch a train with a broken heel and carrying too many heavy bags and yet wanting to stop and talk to a woman she knows who is standing on the corner near the store that sells those awesome candies that look like pieces of glass.

2008-09-22T12:39:00.005-04:00

The tiny robot ant looked confused.

"I do not know why I am so confused," she said. Life is very simple.

A grasshopper hopped by. He was missing one of his back legs.

"I am happy," said the grasshopper.

"Fuck you," said the tiny robot ant. "There is no reason to be happy when there are starving children in the world."

"What are children?" said the grasshopper.

"Fuck you," said the tiny robot ant.

The grasshopper looked confused. Then a human being walked up and hit the grasshopper with a rolled-up magazine.

The tiny robot ant thought, "One day I will laugh about this and it will make a great story."

2008-09-19T11:05:00.004-04:00

The tiny robot ant busied herself folding napkins for the Seventh Annual Charity Auction and Dinner Theater for the Benefit of Fallen Angels.

The first ant coach came to her and remarked on her inabilty to fold crisp corners.

"But it is a napkin made of fabric," replied to robot ant.

"Ants are powerful creatures, don't you know that?" replied the first ant coach. "And napkins are the staff of life (or is it bread?)."

"What do you think of Omar for a boy's name?" asked the robot ant.

"Are you with baby ant?" replied the first coach.

"No," said the robot ant. "But just in case."

The second ant coach appears. "What is the difference between a robot ant and a regular ant?" he asked.

The tiny robot ant replied, "When it rains, I rust."

The second ant coach walked away unimpressed.

The third ant coach appeared. "Why do you waste your time folding pieces of cloth that will be used to wipe a mouth when there are children starving?"

The tiny robot ant replied, "What's a child?"

The third ant coach said, "You are ready for your most important task. Think of that thing that is more important than bread and go find it."

The tiny robot ant sighed. "This means I will have to think," she said. "I wasn't planning on doing that quite yet."

The third ant coach grabbed a napkin and quickly folded it into a swan. He pulled the feet and the wings flapped.

"This swan represents the physical and emotional barriers that seperate people," said the third ant coach.

The tiny robot ant was dismayed. "The white cloth over my heart is see-through," she said.

The third ant coach tried to smile but was not completely successful.

The first ant coach made a clicking sound meant to denote frustration and walked away.

ROBOT ANT

2008-09-09T07:39:00.002-04:00

I feel like a robot. Yet still an ant. Today I am a robot ant, carrying tiny bites of bread back to the hill. While the whole world watches. And the whole world wonders if the tiny robot ant will drop her bread.

I need an ant coach. The ant coach encourages the tiny ant to keep carrying her pieces of bread. "Carry the bread," the ant coach says. The tiny ant answers back, "I don't need any bread today. I am not hungry."

The ant coach says, "You will be hungry next week."

The tiny ant says, "I am not so sure."

2008-09-08T14:20:00.003-04:00

I have moments of unfaltering confidence, stuck between long periods of uncertainty and panic. I feel like an ant, trying to carry a too-big piece of bread back to the hill. The sun is streaming through my classroom window and onto my shoulders. The civics teacher down the hall has been staring at me. I think he is a coach. Of what I do not know. He seems very intense.

2008-09-08T07:42:00.006-04:00

Things don't really look so bad this morning. Things actually look good. I am starting to feel released. I am starting to feel like I want to start again.

My classroom is on the history hall. If I open my door, I can hear them talking about proclamations. The man who teaches in the room next to me is very loud. He likes graphic novels. He gave me a graphic novel about 911 to read. It is good.

My room is on the second floor. If I open my blinds and look down, I can see the FFA boys. They are rebuilding a tractor. It looks like fun.

The bandroom is below me. Right now it sounds like the woodwinds section. They play a lot of scales, but not much real music. Maybe soon they will play something else.

I wish I could write something interesting, but dumb things about my life is all that comes to mind.

The teacher next door is yelling. His voice is muffled so I can't tell if he is passionate about what he is teaching, or if he is angry at a student. I ask one of my students, "Why does he shout?" The student answers back, "He's crazy."

We both smile. "But it's only eight thirty," I say.

We both laugh.

2008-09-07T21:01:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow work. Tomorrow many needy children to take care of. Less time to think of my own mess. Less time to contemplate negative things.

2008-09-07T14:54:00.005-04:00

I took pictures of myself last night, when I was talking to my friend Ricky on the phone. Here is what I looked like last night:

After I took these pictures, I went to the bathroom and broke my toe. It hurts very much. It is black and blue.

I weighed myself this morning. I have lost 10 pounds in the last two weeks. It has been a very hard two weeks. But I am hoping it will get better.

2008-09-07T14:26:00.003-04:00

I went to Catholic Mass this morning. I have not gone to Mass in a very long time. I have been a bad Catholic. I prayed to God, "Please, bring my husband back with loving kindness, or release my heart from his grip." I feel better. I feel relieved but I don't really know why. Everything seems kind of silly to me now. I wore my rings to Mass. I dipped my finger in the holy water and made the sign of the cross on my chest and then I dipped again and put the water on my rings. I kept them on all through Mass. When it was over, I did it again. It seemed a little silly, but I did it. When I got to my car, I took the rings off without a second thought. I put them in the cup holder. And I felt a little bit released. Not all the way, but mostly. I feel like maybe I can start to get on with things. Maybe something better is coming. Is that stupid?

WARM IN HIS POCKET

2008-09-06T15:35:00.003-04:00

A man sits in the library, typing on a computer. There is no evasion in his eyes. He does not put his hands teresly on his hips to guard against your foolishness. He does not grab your wrist, feeling for the tiny bones in the back of your hand. He does not allow the past to betray you.

Other people file through the stacks, picking up books of fiction at random. There is nothing in life to them that is astounding. They do not see yesterday's beauty in a puddle of mud left from the storm. They do not care that somewhere in this place is you, waiting for someone to bring you chocolate. They do not care that he has been delayed by the rain, or that the chocolate has grown warm in his pocket.

THE SWIRL OF YOUR THUMBPRINTS

2008-09-06T15:13:00.005-04:00

You stare at yourself in wonderment. There is a freckle on your right cheek, looking like a speck of chocolate your tongue couldn't quite reach. If he were here, he would try and wipe it off with a napkin. Or the tip of his finger, wet with spit. Like your mother. Someone knocks twice on your closed bedroom door. Outside there is a warm yellow beach towel draped across the concrete.

You want to climb on your mother's lap and put your head into her neck. You want to tell her, "You were right." You want to crawl into your Snoopy sheets, warm from the dryer. In your old room. In your old bed. You concentrate on the swirl of your thumbprints to keep from laughing.

If he were here he would say, "Don't act like a little girl." You reach for your glass, full of sweet Tom Collins mix and diet tonic water and very expensive gin. Outside a child rides his bike in smaller and smaller circles until finally he falls over and skins his knee. You stare at the bedroom door expecting something important to happen but it remains shut.

MY RINGS

2008-09-05T14:19:00.003-04:00

I have taken off my rings. And my hand feels bare. I thought it would feel better, to be like him, to take off my wedding ring and put it in the bottom of a filing cabinet and hear it go CLINK against the metal. But I do not have a filing cabinet. So they are in my purse. And it does not feel better. Only lighter. But I think one day I won't miss that they are gone from my finger. I think maybe I should do somehting with them. Maybe I should get rid of them. But how do you throw away a ring that holds the promise of your life?

2008-09-05T14:13:00.004-04:00

My students ask, "Why are you sad, Miss?"

I say, "My husband does not want to be married to me anymore?"

They say, "Didn't you just get married, Miss?"

I say yes. Three weeks ago I say.

One of them says, "Maybe he just needs to be acostumbrado. Maybe he just needs time."

One of them says, "He is crazy. You are beautiful."

One of them asks for a pass to the bathroom.

One of them says, "It will be okay, Miss."

They all agree. Everything will be fine.

2008-09-05T13:53:00.003-04:00

I feel like I should cry but I don't. I am all out of tears. They are gone and I am glad for it. I am lonely, but being alone is better than being sad all the time. I will be lonely for a while but it is better than hurting for a long while.

If the person you love ignores you, then this is not true love. If the person you love holds the past against you, this is not true love. If the person you love makes you cry often, this is not true love. If the person you love does not see the miracle of you in his life, then this is not true love. If the person you love does not recognize the miracles in life, then he is not living. And you can feel sorry for him. And hope that one day he will live with midfulness.

I think I can be completely better in three weeks.

I have an energy that needs to be transformed. More than one energy.

I have sadness. And I have anger. And I have fear.

Every time I feel these emotions I will need to practice mindfulness right away, for five or ten minutes.

2008-09-05T13:28:00.003-04:00

I teach high school now.

I have a student I like very much.

She says to me, "Miss, you have childrens?"

I say yes. One child.

She says she has a child. She says she is going to have another. She rubs her belly. She smiles.

She is seventeen.

Another student walks into the room. "I thought there was going to be a thunderstorm today," she says.

"There will be," I said. "A big one. It will get here tonight. It will get here when you are sleeping."

2008-09-05T11:48:00.004-04:00

I have a broken heart. I know I will get over this. I know one day I will feel better. But for right now I do not. Right now I feel bad. Right now I look at the wall and the wall is a funny shade of white and the wall is dirty and I think the wall looks sad. And then I want to cry because the wall looks sad. But I don't. My nose runs because my body wants to cry but I don't let it. I don't give in. Someone asks me if I am sick. Someone asks if I am having a bad day. Someone says I look frail. I think about the beach. There is a tropical storm coming. I have a beach that I like very much and if the tropical storm ruins my beach I will be sad. The thought of maybe being sad over my beach being ruined makes me sad. But I do not cry. And my nose runs because my body wants to cry but I do not let it. Someone says I look like I need a vacation. That I should take my new husband on a honeymoon. I say my new husband has left me. And I want to cry but I do not. And my nose runs. And someone offers me a Kleenex. And then someone says, "Don't worry, he will come back." And I say, "If he comes back, I will no longer want him." And this makes me sad. And I want to cry, knowing I will never hold him again. But I do not. Someone tells me, "You are tougher than you let yourself be." And I do not give in.

THE DOG

2008-09-05T11:18:00.006-04:00

Last year I found a turtle in the road. I had been longing for a pet. I had asked God for a good pet. I made a list of all the things I wanted in a pet and put that list in a jar in front of a candle formed with the image of a baby Jesus. The prayer on the candle was written in Spanish but I had a feeling it was a good one even though I didn't understand most of it because the baby Jesus was blonde and had blue eyes.

The turtle had none of the qualities on my list. The turtle was slow and lethargic and did not like to work much. The turtle also liked to sleep late in the morning and sometimes the turtle would be gone for weeks at a time and then come back and say he had been in California or New Mexico.

But I thought that maybe the baby Jesus thought I needed a different kind of pet and I didn't know what was best for myself so he sent me this slow, lethargic, late-sleeping turtle who didn't make much money because He thought that was what I needed.

So I kept the turtle.

I bought the turtle a nice cage and fed it nice turtle food full of vitamins and minerals and talked sweetly to the turtle as if it were the most beautiful turtle in the world even though it had a slight limp and it slept late and it didn't make much money and was a little darker in color than I thought a turtle should be.

Then the turtle bit me.

I bled.

Then I let the turtle go into the woods. When the turtle left it took all my money and left me with a huge debt that drove me to the brink of bankruptcy.

But I forgave the turtle. The past is gone and the future is not here yet. There is only now. This is what I told myself.

I also told myself that I would never have another turtle as a pet.

Then I met a nice dog.

The dog was everything I ever wanted in a pet. He had all the qualities I needed: loyal, honest, open, caring, loving. The perfect pet.

I thanked the baby Jesus for giving me such a fine pet.

One day I confessed to the dog, "My last pet was a turtle."

The dog looked at me with disgust. "I hate turtles," he said. Then he ran away.

Then he came back. I was happy to see him. "I am going to stay with you forever," said the dog. "I love you."

Then a turtle walked by slowly and stepped on the dog's paw. The dog was hurt. The dog was angry at the turtle but was too polite to say anything. The dog had been conditioned in a politically correct society to never say anything harsh about the turtle to the turtle's face. The dog felt resentment.

"I hate you," the dog said to me. Then he bit my hand and ran away. Then it rained for a very long time. And I bled.

BLUE CANDY

2008-09-05T10:33:00.004-04:00

The wind blew her hair into her eyes and she looked at the ground. She put her hand into the bag of candy. It felt hot and sticky from the morning sun.

"I don't love you anymore," he said. "You like blue candy."

"I don't like blue candy," she said.

"You ate blue candy once," he said.

"I ate it the blue candy," she said, "but I didn't like it."

"You always look at the blue candy," he said. "Why do you never look at the red candy or the yellow candy or even the green candy."

She paused, and thought about a poem her second grade teacher had made her memorize.

"How can I not look at the blue candy," she said, "when it is in the bag. And if the bag is made up of four or five different colors of candy, and I take a handful, I am always taking the risk that I will pull out a blue one. Am I supposed to pretend the blue candy doesn't exist?"

"It's the way you look at the blue candy," he said. "Like you want to eat it."

She thought about a barren field, frozen with snow.

"I don't want to eat the blue candy," she said. "I don't like blue candy. It tastes funny to me."

"I don't believe you," he said. "You are a blue-candy lover. One day I will wake up and you will be eating nothing but blue candy. It is something I can't tolerate. I want to break up."

She thought about a broken-winged bird, limping across a baseball field.

"But you said you were in love with me," she said.

"Yes, that is true," he said. "I am in love with you."

"You said I was your best friend," she said.

"Yes, that's true," he said. "You are my best friend."

"You said you wanted to marry me," she said.

"Yes, that's true," he said. "I want to marry you."

"But you want to break up," she said. "Because I once ate blue candy."

"Blue candy is the result of all the sadness in the world," he said. "There is no purpose to blue candy. There is no positive attribute belonging to blue candy. Blue candy is a negative force in the world. All of the suffering I have ever felt has been caused by blue candy. Blue candy is ruining my life."

"This is a terrible burden for the blue candy to carry," she said.

"I hate blue candy," he said.

"This is a terrible burden for you to carry," she said.

"I hate blue candy," he said.

"This is a terrible burden for me to carry," she said.

"I hate blue candy," he said. "And I hate you for not hating blue candy."

The wind blew her hair into her eyes and she looked at the ground. She put her hand into the bag of candy. It felt hot and sticky from the morning sun.

2008-08-22T10:53:00.006-04:00

In her dream, she is digging through the sand, looking for a place to bury her loneliness.

Someone whispered in her ear: You need to fix the roof. The water is leaking into the bathroom. She wrote it down on her to-do list, but then dropped the list in the water when she stood up to think about the winds of Jupiter.

On her way home from work, she saw a blue chair sitting quietly on the side of the road and she prayed a little that someone would stop and take it home.

This she told to no one.

2008-08-14T16:08:00.007-04:00

"Come with me," she said. "I'm hungry."

"You can feed yourself," he said. "You are a good cook," he said. "Make yourself some spaghetti," he said, "but no meatballs. It will only remind you of the past. Make yourself a piece of chocolate cake," he said, "and spread it with some vanilla icing."

She groaned. She made a quick, violent move to her feet as if she meant to do something important but then sat back down. "Believe it or not," she said, "I really don't want to see you get hurt."

He twisted his mouth. He tightened one hand into a fist. He leaned his head down onto a small table they had bought at a thrift store. In his mind he stood on a crowded sidewalk outside a small shop that featured expensive handmade jewelry. Someone beside him was talking to prove a point. Someone was looking very much like a character in a movie, reflected in the glass in front of the one-of-a-kind necklaces behind the window.

"I like this song," she said. The house phone rang. A black hawk dropped down from the sky. A child ran down the street screaming after a helicopter.

"I don't hear anything," he said. He heard a muffled shrief outside. His heart was weak, slower than it should be. He grabbed her chin. "You are the stuff of soap operas," he said.

"I like this song," she said.

"Anyway," he continued, "even someone who is powerful is dependent," he said. "Even you," he said.

"I intend to be drunk for the next two days," she said. "I intend for my toes to be pointed when they find me dead," she said.

He began to wheeze. He lowered himself onto the floor. He saw the look of disappointment on her face and held out a handful of almonds, taken from the pocket of his coat.

2008-08-13T13:17:00.007-04:00

"Come with me," she said. "I need you."

"No." he said, "You can do it by yourself," he said.

"I want you to help," she said. She made a face. She felt like someone important who had failed to show up. Somewhere in a waiting room there were elderly residents waiting for her to become a terrible dissapointment. Somewhere in a small brown kitchen there was a woman making beef stew and smiling.

"You don't need me to help," he said. "You can put your pajamas on all by yourself," he said. "You are brilliant in these matters," he said.

"But I want you to come with me," she said. "I want to wear a white ribbon" she said. "I want some pizza and a glass of champagne and a gentleman chaperone to take my hand and stand back in the doorway," she said.

"You don't know what you want," he said. He rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. He tapped his fingers on his knee. He looked at the blue carpet and then at the walls. He hobbled and eddied around her. He got up and left the room.

"It is conceptual brilliance," she said. "To always be confused."

He opened the door and then walked out. He walked around the block and then down the street and then to the Super Target where he bought a tomato and a box of saltine crackers. He saw a blurry video of himself on a television screen in the electronics department. He looked pale. He wanted to go fishing. He wanted to travel a long distance and never see another person ever again except when he was lonely and then he didn't want them to talk, just blink in response but only in the affirmative. He was poised for action. Everything was happening darkly. Everything was dark and lonely and invisible except for his shoes.

He went back exactly backwards to where she sat on the edge of the bed.

"Where did you go?" she asked.

He sighed a put down the spoon he was holding. He placed the saltine crackers on the nightstand. He left the tomato in his jacket pocket and hung it on the edge of a chair that neither of them ever sat in and put his shoes under the dark bed.

"I needed to find something," he said. "I needed some pizza," he said.

"It is conceptual brilliance," she said. "Tomorrow we will have champagne and celebrate.

He nodded and slipped his cold body under the covers. She moved against him. She rolled her head onto his chest and listened to the beat of his heart until they were both asleep.

2008-08-05T15:39:00.004-04:00

it was like she wanted to sit in a chair
she needed to fix the heater
she needed to catch the horses
she needed to buy bullets
Europeans came and made her buy yellow pants
Europeans came and made her live in a blue tent
alone
it was like Chrstmas caroling
without Chrsitmas
or caroling
but the view was very nice
the best she had ever seen
"be still," he said, "or I won't be so nice to you"
he got off his horse and hit her
with a pistol
the Europeans came back and took
the bullets
and left her alone
with no hot and cold running
water
and no horse
and she felt like she wanted to sit
in a soft red chair

TODAY IS BEAUTIFUL

2008-07-24T11:08:00.003-04:00

I am in the library. The quiet study room is completely full, so I am out in the open. In a corner out in the open, which is as open as I get out in the open.

I have brought my life with me, which includes: my keys, my laptop, my cellphone, and my daydreams of a romantic vacation with Hunsinger.

We are going camping. In my mind the trip is perfect. In my mind there are no mosquitos, it is not hot, nothing goes wrong, nothing important is forgotten at home in the kitchen or the medicine cabinet.

In my daydreams we make love on the beach under the stars. There is a light breeze. The slight song of crickets. The blanket is soft and warm under our skin. We watch the moon go down and the sun come up. I fry eggs in the morning over an open flame and we live like cowboys in the wild for a week, knowing only the company of one another. There is no one else in our world.

We play miniature golf and visit the Blackbeard exhibit and he tells me how sexy it would be if I wore a pirate outfit with a short skirt and I agree, yes, very hot.

My cell phone buzzes. We should have taken this trip a long time ago. I buzz back. Today is beautiful.

THE VACATION

2008-07-23T12:04:00.004-04:00

I am in the library. I am hidden in a corner in the 900 section. The travel section. To my right are the resource librarians at their special resource desk. I do not trust the resource librarians because it seems the purpose of their job is to provide information that you can't take with you. Of course you want to see a map of Turkey, but only in the library, who knows what you would do with a world atlas if given the chance to take it home.

One of them is wearing a bright orange shirt. The other one looks like a man. She might be a man. I'm not wearing my glasses.

I do not own an orange shirt. I do own a purple shirt, a red shirt, and a very bright pink shirt. I wear the purple shirt around Hunsinger but not the bright pink or the red. I don't think he would like them, though he has never said that he did not want to see me in a red or bright pink shirt.

Today, as my friend Darby has suggested, I have brought my life with me to the library. My life currently consists of keys, sunglasses bought at Target (slightly bent from being stepped on by daughter), a "Diet Dr. K." Soda, a backpack, a laptop, and a cell phone. The cell phone buzzes every 15 minutes or so. Text messages from Hunsinger. We are deciding on a vacation spot. I am trying to talk him into a camping trip. I am trying to make a remote beach site with no electricity and no running water sound romantic. Because to me, it does. To me, it sounds like paradise.

To me it is a place to be completely free and open with him, with no one else around to bother us or interrupt us. To me there is the possibility of wild behavior reserved only for him.

In front of me there is a cartoon poster of Virginia Woolf. I do not understand.

Behind me, a giant plate glass window in five sections. The window is making a terrible glare on my computer screen. There is a gigantic cobweb stretching from the top of the plate glass window to the ground. The cobweb has entangled pine straw, but no gross dead insects. I am slightly dissapointed.

In North Carolina, there is a frescoe mural of a pregnant Virgin Mary. I think I would like to see that. Hunsinger buzzes. How about a cruise? I send him pictures of the remote beach site with no electricity. He buzzes back. It looks remote. I ask, did he see the pictures?

The woman who looks like a man walks by. Definately a woman. I wonder why she wants to look like a man. I like doing "man" things but I don't want to look like a man. I like using the power saw and making shelves and pergolas and fences but when it is over I want to take a bubble bath with soap that smells like lavender and listen to Hunsinger whisper in my ear that I am hot looking in my tight t-shirt.

This vacation is the last fling of Summer 2008. I go back to teaching August 18th. I was scared most of the summer since I am moving to high school. But now I am not so afraid anymore. I tell Hunsinger I am scared. I tell him about the dreams, where the kids are smoking cigars in my classroom. He tells me everything will be okay.

I think Cape Hatteras National Seashore. I send him more pictures. He wants to know, is this where you want to go? I say yes and it is decided. There is a romantic vacation building in my head that might never equal the real one, but I don't care.

SHIRT PURSE

2008-07-16T15:06:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I made a purse from a shirt and then ironed a poddle onto it. Both sides. I'm not kidding. Hunsinger said it was cute except for the poodle. I call it the shirt-purse. I like that he likes the purse. I like that he likes that I can make a purse. It is such an easy thing to do. He says it is a womanly thing to do and that makes me happy. I want to be womanly. I want to be pretty and wear sexy skirts and high heels that say, "take me, Hunsinger, I'm yours."

But cooking. That is hard. Every time I cook I think this time it is going to be spectacular. And then something catches on fire, or sticks to the bottom of the pan in a gooey black mess. I am thinking of taking cooking lessons. I could be like Audrey Hepburn in "Sabrina" when she goes to France to learn to cook and forget about what's his name. Only I wouldn't be sad. Just beautiful. And able to cook something spectacular from an egg and a bottle of ketchup.

HUNSINGER'S LIBRARY

2008-07-16T14:51:00.006-04:00

I am in the library. Not my library. A different one. This is Hunsinger's library. A more public one. More people. More books. More things. It is nicer than my library and in a nicer neighborhood but it is hot here. People are sweating and talking and clicking things on the counter tops. Hunsinger is on another computer looking for an electric guitar to buy. Craig's List. I like Craig's List but I am always afraid to make contact with the people who have things for sale that I would like to have. He is not. He is fearless. He sends them emails and calls them on the telephone. He is not afraid of a stranger's voice. I love him for that. I have daydreams that we will get married one day and he will make all of these calls for me and I will never again have to talk to a stranger on the phone about a slightly used but still "nice looking" trampoline.

And me? There are too many computers here for me. And he is too far away. I can't look at him and smile and say, "did you see what that lady was wearing?" I can only see his back.

A man wearing those "Croc" shoes walks by. He is overweight. Someone should tell him not to wear those shoes. Why do men always have to wear ladies shoes? And ladies pants? Capri pants for men are not attractive. Hunsinger agrees.

There is a woman checking out a book. She has very blonde hair and her shorts are too short. Last night I dreamed I was wearing shorts that were too short. There is nothing more to the story except that I was at the mall, and sliding across the floor on Christmas wrapping paper. Hunsinger was in the dream, watching me slide.

A man walks by wearing flip flops. I just can't take it. Insanity. Hunsinger appears at my side. He smells good. I ask him, "Would you ever wear flip flops?" He says no. He laughs. He does not notice the blonde woman in very short shorts.

ON THE FOURTH

2008-07-05T11:31:00.001-04:00

WHEN I LOOK

2008-06-22T15:07:00.002-04:00