The Miscellanies of Calamity West

Motion for Action

2012-01-21T16:42:00.000-08:00

Wrigley Field is right there?
Next to The Redline? Almost at Belmont? On the left?
(wow.)
I’ve done this commute for a year now…why haven’t I noticed it before?

I’m obsessed with Katy Perry’s divorce.

I like looking at the daily photo log of the Costa Concordia sinking into the sea.
There’s nothing we can do.
We just have to let it sink
and take photos of it with our phones
and post them online for the whole world.
We’ll just watch.
And think about the dead.
Two old men. One young woman.
(I know there were others, but for some reason those are the ones I remember hearing about.
No names. No nationality. Just gender and age.)
Think about their last moments.
Their last breaths.
Their panic…? Perhaps?
…
…
We just have to let it sink.
Technology hasn’t taken us that far - which I find beautifully and strangely reassuring.
Slip away.
like Planets colliding
The Planet up here, and The Planet down there.
…
…
Jacques Cousteau went to the bottom of The Great Salt Lake
and came back
and swore he’d never talk about what he saw
…
…
and that was just a Lake.
(( and even though he didn’t talk about it… …people speculate Cousteau fell witness to a mass grave of Chinese Men who had constructed the railroads which ran from That Ocean to the Other Ocean of Northern America.
And when they reached their destination (designated by American Men) the American Men murdered them, so they wouldn’t have to pay them. And disposed their bodies in That Great Salt Lake.))

…but again, this is just speculation.
Because Jacques never talked about it.
though surely he wasn’t alone on the ship…errr, submarine.
Surely, others saw what he saw.
And even if he were alone on that submarine,
perhaps he would tell his lovers of The Lake?
Quiet room? Soft light? 1am?
They would ask, what is below The Sea?
And he would tell them.
They would ask, what’s the most beautiful thing below The Sea?
And he would tell them.
And they would ask, “what’s the most horrifying thing below The Sea?”
And he would say,
“nothing is horrifying below The Sea. It is only majestic.
But The Lake!
The Lake holds true horrors.
Horrors, I swore I’d never speak of.
Until now, mon petite ami.
Sit closely and I will tell you...”

I have a half memory of being drunk at a party and someone asking me if I thought Katy Perry and Russell Brand would get a divorce.
And I said, “Of course! Are you kidding me? of course, of course, or course.”
To which, an impassioned 20something male said, “Are YOU kidding ME? They’re in love! It’s totally going to last! They’re both insane in the same way…” he went on, but I don’t remember what he said…

Beyoncé had a baby.
Newt Gingrich wanted an open marriage with his second wife.
Rihanna might be getting back together with Chris Brown.
Etta James died.

While in Calamityland:
#1 we were at a bar and she was looking over the bill like it was a part of the JFK assassination files
Her new husband couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t annoyed by this
#2 a friend left his bride of six months to be with someone he began calling The Love of His Life
#3 a friend got drunk and confessed she regretted having her child who’s barely a year old
#4 the married couple can’t think of anything to talk about over dinner except for how ugly the last wedding they attended was
#5 another engagement was announced
#6 another engagement ended
#7 and I sit in my apartment writing and thinking about all of this. I make tea. Clean obsessively. Try to read Watership Down for the second time. Listen to, too much NPR (not meant to be nearly as pretentious as that sounds). Go to sleep warm. Wake up still. Wear at least four layers of clothing and turn on my humidifier. Which officially makes me old

Compact. Delicate. Hardbound.

2011-11-19T14:57:00.000-08:00

The copy of “Giovanni’s Room” I received from the library is the perfect size.
Held in the fingertips of my left hand, I instantly feel Parisian.
Oh this? This is the Belmont platform, transformed into a glowing hub of internationalism.
The weather? Grey skies with intricate violet stripes. Nothing more to report.
Escalators appear gluttonous; walking proves invigorating.
My winter coat shrinks and expands becoming perfectly suitable.
My patent leather shoes will blind you.
And this? Why this is the best thing you could ever, ever imagine reading.
Compact. Delicate. Hardbound.
“for Lucien”.
(Lucid, Lucid, Lucid)
I wake up in a state of panic.
“…for nothing is more unbearable, once one has it, than freedom. I suppose this was why I asked her to marry me: to give myself something to be moored to. Perhaps this was why, in Spain, she decided that she wanted to marry me. But people can’t, unhappily, invent their mooring posts, their lovers and their friends, any more than they can invent their parents. Life gives these and also takes them away and the great difficulty is to say Yes to life.”

I remember a professor insisting that we, her students, read it though it wasn’t on the syllabus.
…
…
I remember writing it down on college rule.
G-I-O-V-A-N-N-I-(apostrophe) S (space) R-O-O-M
That was years ago. This copy arrived on Thursday.

I’ve been having a hard time finding what to say. Living in the creative lobe (full frontal) of La La Land which is where my creative buds bloom from the floorboards. Going from this room to that one and the one right over there.

I’ve been thinking about karma. I’ve been obsessed with freewill and identity. I’ve been thinking about opposites. The way things happen. I have come to learn over and over and over again, that the most beneficial thing we can do for our public and private identities is to be kind to others. In words and actions. To do the opposite proves to be catastrophic in slow, dangerous ways. Plots will inevitably turn and be cut inside out with jagged edges.

I’ve had the bubbling self-inflicted pressure to show everything.
I then find there’s nothing to say.
Afraid everything will just pour out.
…
…
I don’t care about Occupy Wall Street (is that capitalized? Italicized? Underlined?)
…
…
I’ve been daydreaming about LBJ, post –presidency. Texas. The chickens and the eggs. Drinking himself to death. His night terrors without having gone to war. His long hair – an aesthetic attempt to gain acceptance from his enemies The Hippies. Becoming exactly what The Kennedy’s bred him to be. What they saw him to be. Did he look in the mirror and slide his shaking fingertips down his leather cheeks? Turn his head to the left and examine his weakening jaw line? Did he trim his long grey locks with a small pair of silver scissors? In the morning? Shirtless? Sad blue eyes, “what happened? What happened?” A follower more than a leader. The face of a war. The War. That War. Creating an existence of antique heroism.

I went to France when I was 14.
I was anxious and indifferent.
I remember watching an episode of Friends in my childhood home the night before the journey,
riddled with quiet, unspoken anxiety. Convinced I was to die somewhere over the Atlantic, traveling from Missouri to France.

I think about all of this on the Belmont platform while opening the hardbound text, flipping to the next page.

i was given the assignment to write about "the four elements" which proved to be far more interesting in research and theory than what my brain (that is 77% water) could actually come up with.

2011-11-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

Ancient Classic Element Systems
In classical thought, the four elements Earth, Water, Air, and Fire frequently occur; sometimes including a fifth element or quintessence (after "quint" meaning "fifth") called Aether in ancient Greece and India. The concept of the five elements formed a basis of analysis in both Hinduism and Buddhism. In Hinduism, particularly in an esoteric context, the four states-of-matter describe matter, and a fifth element describes that which was beyond the material world. Similar lists existed in ancient China and Japan. In Buddhism the four great elements, to which two others are sometimes added, are not viewed as substances, but as categories of sensory experience.

First: I walk on the Earth
Second: 77% of my brain is water
Third: air fills my lungs
Fourth: there is a contained, manmade fire in my pocket
Fifth:
I light the fire to fill my lungs with smoke,
which sends chemicals to the water in my brain.
(when finished)I throw the remnants to the Earth I walk on.
The fifth element in this is habit.
The fifth element in that is self-infliction.
The fifth element in that is the past and the fifth element of the past is perception.

First: quint
Second: 77% of my brain is kool-aid
Third: I tell my lungs to take in air and am oblivious to it. This makes me wonder what other involuntary acts I perform to keep myself alive. I’m not speaking biologically.
Fourth: a) I have never seen a house burn down b) I wouldn’t pass up the chance to
Fifth: I have the luxury to say “I wouldn’t pass up watching a house burn down” because it’s never happened to me. But it happens all the time. But not as much as it used to thanks to cell phones (Terry Gross taught me that. Fact. Not quint.).

First: When I was 16, I threw a bag of McDonald's into a rural ditch from a moving car. My peer, driving, slammed on the breaks, put the car in reverse, and insisted I retrieve it. “it’ll attract animals and then they’ll get hit by a car and it will be all your fault!!!” he stopped the car in front of the trash and I picked it up, shocked and humiliated. A statue of The Virgin Mary was in the backseat. We had stolen it that night from a large house on top of a hill.
Second: 77% of my brain is fiction
Third: when I started smoking at the age of 20 a friend sent me a photo of a pair of lungs that had once belonged to a smoker. "they had only smoked for ONE year and DIED of lung cancer!!!” he told me. I was skeptical.
I have been smoking for 10 years.
Fourth: I first read this when I was 21: “Three of the four elements are shared by all creatures, but fire was a gift to humans alone. Smoking cigarettes is as intimate as we can become with fire without immediate excruciation. Every smoker is an embodiment of Prometheus*, stealing fire from the gods and bringing it on back home….” – Tom Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker
Fifth: 77% of my brain is fiction and that* is a nice thought

First: I passed Earth Science in high school because I made my teacher brownies and babysat his kids for free (I’ve never told anyone that).
Second: 77% of my brain is dedicated to: a) the clothes I wear b) the plays I write c) the imaginary conversations I have with people I know but mostly people I don’t
Third: I found my favorite mystery novel from the 2nd grade. I want to know now what scared me then. I remember the title and nothing of the plot. The first line reads, “There is nothing bashful about a tule fog.” I have no idea what a “tule fog” is. But apparently my second grade self did…?
Tule fog forms during the late fall and winter (California's rainy season) after the first significant rainfall. The official time frame for tule fog to form is from November 1 to March 31. This phenomenon is named after the tule grass wetlands (tulares) of the Central Valley. Accidents caused by the tule fog are the leading cause of weather-related casualties in California.
Fourth: (( i can't believe it's been ten years ... ))
Fifth: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_fifth_element

my sincere architecture or, charging ahead like a gangbuster while biting my nails.

2011-09-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

First Things First / addendum
Ladies and gentleman, we ask that at this time you take your seat and fasten your seat belt as The Captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt Sign.
We will, without fail, be experiencing life threatening turbulence.
Make sure your seat back, folding trays and self-worth are in their full, upright position.
At this time we request that all mobile phones, emails, social networking sites and city blocks are restricted for your mental wellbeing.
We will be traveling 225,622 miles above The Earth’s atmosphere into the blackness of space and the light of the moon.
There we will see The Earth’s horizon which looks like a thin, royal blue line drawn around the circumference of our beloved planet.
If you haven’t done so, please stow your emotional baggage underneath your seat or in an overhead bin.
Smoking is not prohibited, but encouraged.

Self-Indulgent and Written By a Trick III
Stephen Elliott once said, “It's very inefficient to write without knowing where you're going but that's the nature of the beast. That's how you create art, generally. How can you have discovery without exploration?”

Track List
(for this album)
1. "Ex-Girlfriend"
2. "Simple Kind of Life"
3. "Bathwater"
4. “Six Feet Under"
5. "Magic's in the Makeup"
6. "Artificial Sweetener"
7. "Marry Me"
8. "New"
9. "Too Late"
10."Comforting Lie"
11."Suspension without Suspense"
12."Staring Problem"
13."Home Now"
14."Dark Blue"

oscillating between these two songs.
( which makes me think of the Oscillating Universe Theory and how it's not all that different from this exact chapter of my rambling blog and overly articulate Life. )

The Big Bang

The Big Crunch

I Like Green Apples
I am present for a conversation where Person A says to Person B that blogs should have focus.
“If they aren’t focused, they don’t work.”
…(inhale, turn head and pucker lips)…?
…I think that’s giving far too much weight to something that is very obsolete.
And I would say the same thing to my 18-year-old self in regards to…

...THE RETURN OF SATURN!!! or, SATURN RETURNS!!!
EPIC!EPIC!EPIC! HORROR MOVIE OF THE 1950’S! MORTALITY! WEDDING RING! REGRETS! BIRTH CONTROL! STUDIO APARTMENTS! I WANT AN I.R.A.! I WANT AN APRON! MOVING AGAINST (while) MOVING WITH THINGS THAT ARE MEANT TO BE! GIRL SCREAMS WITH A PERFECTLY CURLED BOB!
In astrology, the Saturn return is an alleged phenomenon which is described as influencing a person's life development at 27 to 29 or 30-year intervals. These intervals or "returns" coincide with the approximate time it takes the planet Saturn to make one orbit around the sun, i.e. 29.4 years. It is believed by astrologers that, as Saturn "returns" to the degree in its orbit occupied at the time of birth, a person crosses over a major threshold and enters the next stage of life. With the first Saturn return, a person leaves youth behind and enters adulthood. With the second return, maturity. And with the third and usually final return, a person enters wise old age. These periods are estimated to occur at roughly the ages of 28-30, 56-60 and 84-90. A fourth return occurs for only a few people, at age 114-118.

On The Mind
-Failed relationships in my family
-Apparently successful relationships in my family
-Three Weeks Ago: Mexican restaurant. No one knew we were there, but we were.
-Every Single Day: no one knows we are here, but we are.
-Things That Are Meant to Be
-Artificial Sweeteners vs. The Taste of Simplicity
-Two Nights Ago: walking around with disguised alcohol, laughing, the light in your eyes
-I have one option and it is open
-Your wedding dress is beautiful
-The smell of my new home
-The table in my new home
-Patterns and Obsessions
-Consciousness
-I appreciate the sentiment but rumor is spelled, “R-U-M-O-R”
-I’m afraid to have a baby because of how many years I’ve smoked and how many years I was on birth control.
-Sometimes I wish Jewel would write another book of poetry…for obvious and not so obvious reasons
~~-I’m waiting for the day when someone tells that girl to calm down because she can’t control everything and needs to stop being passive aggressive. she needs to calm down…for two seconds.~~
- I know I will never be the person who actually tells her this because:
a) I know she will scream at me
b) then I will cry
c) I am coward
-Sometimes, I too, wish for a mistake
-Fairy Tale Idea: Sometimes I wish My Knight would kidnap me to a suburban home and let me cook dinner(s) for him
-Why Fairy Tale Ideas Don't Work: I know that if (above) were to actually happen, I’d end up resenting That Knight after two years
-Fairy Tale Idea Realized, Personified (check!)
~~-You telling me that “going home” to your baby gives you more joy than “going to get drinks” makes me think you really, really, really miss going to get drinks~~
-I woke up in the middle of the night and he gave me a cookie

Merriam Webster’s “Word of The Day” Has Been Corresponding With My Life in an Uncanny Way
Today
solace \SAH-lus\ noun
1 : alleviation of grief or anxiety
2 : a source of relief or consolation

Yesterday
perpend \per-PEND\ verb
1 : to reflect on carefully : ponder
2 : to be attentive : reflect

The Day Before
contumacious \kahn-too-MAY-shus\ adjective
: stubbornly disobedient : rebellious

The Day Before That
flatfoot \FLAT-foot\ noun
1 : a condition in which the arch of the instep is flattened so that the entire sole rests upon the ground
2 a slang : police officer; especially : a patrolman walking a regular beat
b slang : sailor

even Lincoln had an assassin.

2011-09-13T12:48:00.000-07:00

The habit of looking into the eyes of Abraham Lincoln is a new one.
There is a balance of eccentricity and stillness.
There is focus. There is kindness.
There are insecurities from childhood.
There is a Power of adulthood.
Stoic.

Stoicism (Greek Στοά) is a school of Hellenistic philosophy founded in Athens by Zeno of Citium in the early 3rd century BC. The Stoics believed that destructive emotions resulted from errors in judgment, and that a sage, or person of "moral and intellectual perfection," would not suffer such emotions.

I understand that I have the luxury of (purely and simply) adoring Lincoln.
“Luxury” because:
I was not in the world when he was.
I was made to believe, starting at a very young age, that he was (just) A Great Man.
I didn’t have to live the life as an American when he was president.
I didn’t have to wake up every day to new headlines or restrictions or laws or tendencies or stillness or war or silence.
This is what I hold on to.
And let the rest run its course.
My mother says, “Goodnight” and my father says, “Come home soon.”
My doctor says “how do I put this...? a shithead.”
My mind says, “It’s been a long time.”
My brain says, “I’ve never felt better.”
My Friends say, “_______________________.”
The Acquaintance says, “______________________.”
The Complete Stranger asks me if I am who they think I am.
I respond with, “I don’t know…why?”
The Complete (and young) Stranger finishes her(almost) Complete Sentence with,
“Well if you are who i think you are, you should know ________________ (inhale) ________________(exhale).”

(( surely, this happened to Abraham Lincoln all the time. ))

I am 29.
I am 29.
I am 29.

Again,
Stoicism (Greek Στοά) is a school of Hellenistic philosophy founded in Athens by Zeno of Citium in the early 3rd century BC. The Stoics believed that destructive emotions resulted from errors in judgment, and that a sage, or person of "moral and intellectual perfection," would not suffer such emotions.

I’ve been second guessing the accuracy of my spelling.
I’ve been second guessing the accuracy of my internal compass.
I’ve been eating Jonathan’s peanut butter.
I’ve been walking alone. For hours at a time.
I’ve been drinking coffee.
I’ve been writing.
I’ve been thinking.

I love that he wore that hat.
I love that he built log cabins before he was a lawyer.
I love that he was a lawyer before he was a president.
I love that he read the Bible but did not believe in God.
I love that he had heart.
I love that he journaled (see below):

“About ten days ago, I retired very late…I could not have been long in bed when I fell into a slumber, for I was weary. I soon began to dream. There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along. I saw light in all the rooms; every object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and so shocking, I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. 'Who is dead in the White House?' I demanded of one of the soldiers, 'The President,' was his answer; 'he was killed by an assassin.' Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd, which woke me from my dream. I slept no more that night; and although it was only a dream, I have been strangely annoyed by it ever since.”

I was about to create a list of things I remember from the past ten years. But this is all I want to come up with.
#1 Passenger side seat. Feet on the dashboard. Andrew Bird before he was Andrew Bird. Cigarettes. Black converse. Driving through the amazingly rich, green, green landscape of Kentucky. This. Was. Kentucky.
#2 Driver’s Seat. Driving myself through the red and white landscape of Utah. This. Is. Utah. Blue, blue sky. Hot as hell. Cigarettes. Ashes flying in and out of the cracked window. Air conditioning a must.

I am 29.
I am 29.
I am 29.

This decade. This decade…!
The exit will be joyous and I promise never to return.
Looking back at those still there as if leaving Sodom and Gomorrah.
Not becoming a pillar of salt, but a pillar of Stoicism.

a) message from R. b) my response to R. c) response from V. (in response to my response to R.)

2011-09-12T08:46:00.000-07:00

a) MESSAGE FROM R.
1-When I need inspiration with my dissertation I weirdly stalk your blog, and read through all your old posts as well as your new one (although lately I can only go back to a certain point).

2-Two weeks ago (an ex) emailed me saying really nice things, and sent pics of my old building in Chicago which has now been totally changed and looks pretty amazing.A week after that I found out that my new place in Chicago is around the corner from (my ex's) place, and I emailed him, and he said "that's great! We should get coffee once you're back."

Four days ago he put up on facebook that he's in a relationship with someone new, complete with a photo album of cute boyfriend/girlfriend pics. And I thought, "oh that's great!" and really did mean it.

And then got an email from someone who knew both of us and the subject was, "Are you ok?" and the message was, "look, I just always thought you two would get back together, and wanted to check in to see if you're ok. I mean, you guys were great! I was so sure you'd get married" (actual text, I copied and pasted) AND THEN
An email from ANOTHER friend who we both knew and that said in the subject line, "Ouch" and the message said, "Wow, so you two really aren't getting back together huh?" (again, actually copied and pasted)And THEN I had a short moment of, "was I missing something there?" and then started remembering just the good times.

3- (deleted)

4-Because anytime I think of (my ex) which has sadly been a lot this week, I change my thoughts to you and remember things you've said to me about love, and the optimistic sides of breakups, and I've needed it this week.

5-Because I remembered this week how you love Valentine's Day, and even on the first one I had without (my ex) in over three years, you told me to stay positive and that I was going to find someone again to celebrate with.

6-Because I thought about you talking to _______ about her and _______ (which seems like decades ago now, doesn't it?) and how positive you were about both of them, even when you knew they were not supposed to be together. And you said something about, "just because two people are both nice people, doesn't mean they're supposed to be together"... you didn't know I was going through a breakup at the time, and I don't even know if you'll remember saying it, but I remember literally in my head thanking God that you had, because I needed to hear it.

b) MY RESPONSE TO R.
When I was 18 I met a boy that I thought I had to marry.
And then I broke up with him. And then I asked him to take me back.
And he did.
And then I broke up with him again.
And then I asked him to take me back.
And he said “no”.
And then I was driving around and I saw him with another girl and I blared…some song…(perhaps a Stevie Wonder song? I was big into Stevie Wonder at the ages of 8 and 20) And I cried and cried all the way home in my car.

When I was 21 I met a young man that I thought I had to marry.
He did not want to marry me. At all.
I begged. He said “no”. I begged. He said “I don’t believe in marriage”.
This went on for years.
I eventually broke up with him (over the phone)and moved across the country.
Four months after the move, he called me and asked me to marry him.
I said “no”.

Only remembering “the good times” is…good?…right?
Who wants to sit around thinking about all the bad times?
Who wants to mill over a break-up…? …not ME…no, no. Certainly… (sloppy exhale)…not me.

Your reality is the only reality.
Your memory is the only memory.
And “memory” is a tricky thing…which I’ve blogged about but there’s no use looking for the entry because (as you mentioned in your message) a month ago I deleted over half of them.
Dozens and dozens of posts.
I’m rash in that way.
i.e. removing and deleting things from the past in hopes of easing the pain of The Present and The Future.
I have but two REAL mementos in my possession.
Always trying to forget.
A habit I am consciously trying to shake off.

The last line in Memento
“I have to believe in a world outside my own mind. I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if i don't remember them. I have to believe that when my eyes are closed, the world is still there. Do I believe the world's still there? Is it still out there? (pause) Yeah. We all need mirrors to remind ourselves who we really are. I'm no different… …now where was I?”

I don’t remember saying the things you said I said. But they sound nice.
Those things sound like nice things to say.
I know I believed them at one point.
Currently I believe…that…it’s just sad when things don’t work out.
Like…really, really sad.
Even sadder when you know things could have been avoided.
Even sadder when you get emails from friends saying how perfect you were for one another(I can’t believe people are actually saying that to you. Strange. )
So, yes! I believe I said those things to you.
And I believe that I meant them at the time.
Presently I believe…I believe in Soul Mates the same way I believe in Feng Shui.
That is: if you prescribe to it, it exists.
And you will experience a result.
And chances are your life will be far more beautiful and neurotic because of it.

c) RESPONSE FROM V. (IN RESPONSE TO MY RESPONSE TO R.)
i love this.
i was reading rilke last night and he says, "love is the only rational act."
i thought of you...immediately.
it is SO TRUE. it is true because we decide it is true. we decide it is the kind of life we want to have. the kind of life where we love people messily and fully and with passion and hope and belief.
i love the part about deleting things.
i love the ways we try to move on.
lessons i have learned about moving on. you try and try and try and try. you create rituals. you think you have. you are wrong. you try and try and try. and weirdly, it just happens. it happens like...poof!
when i was 21 i remember being on my knees ((literally)) at a train station, in tears, yelling into the pay phone at a man who didn't want to be with me anymore. my college boyfriend who had named our future children with me and bought me a ring with a violet stone in it and had healed me. it was inconceivable to me that the words i said through the pay phone could not move him, that i couldn't just make him.
i burned a black candle every single night and took pictures of myself with polaroids like i was a fucking goth girl or something.
ten years later i sat on a screen porch with him in virginia and he made me a cocktail and we laughed so hard. like none of that had ever happened.
he came to my wedding.
he said, i was a child when i was with you...and you made me grow up.
his face is so beautiful it still makes me a little sad. but i have moved on.
i don't know when or how or why it happened. it just did.
alchemically and for real.
i love your blog. unposted. unread by the boy of the initials.
but i can tell you what calamity west...you love the right way.
it is the only rational thing to do.
i love you.

takin' a break for a moment...

2011-08-04T03:28:00.000-07:00

...but i'll be back. enjoy the summer and i'll see ya in the fall.
much love, loyal readers. xo

be patient. be kind.

2011-07-26T13:03:00.001-07:00

Fell asleep praying for humility, humility, humility.
Because this is not my good side.
Insecurities shown through a golden glow.
Attracting all the wrong people.
Attracting the worst person of all: My Bad Side
Head drooping down or nose to the sun (usually the moon).
Stood by the “No Parking” sign with my yellow suitcase and cigarette. Short dress.
A friend surprised me with a loud laugh and an enormous embrace.
“What are you doing here, sexy?” (laugh, laugh, laugh)
“A vagabond of the Chicago streets these days.”
“What’s with the suitcase?”

Take cabs from this couch to that one, wondering what the drivers think of me.
((Because My Bad Side assumes everyone is thinking about "me". This is not Romantic. This is pathetic.))
One driver asked me if I was Mexican.
“No.”
What are you?
“Not sure.”
What do you do?
“I’m a writer.”
(he thinks, looking at the road and then me, the road and then me and says:)
I don’t know the word, but you look…you look gifted. Is that the right word?
“You mean like, ‘retarded’?”
No, no, umm….special. Your colors. Your smile.
He is describing My Bad Side...which happens to be a little retarded.

This. Is. My. Bad. Side.
Fooling everyone with mindless flirtations and bursts of manic happiness.
The relationship between my good side and My Bad Side is a story all in itself.
The first time they met, they hated each other.
The second time they met, they fell in love.
This, being the third time, they are siblings.
A much older brother and a young, red lipped sister.
The good rolling its eyes at The Bad.
The good pulling down the (dangerously) short hemline of The Bad's skirt with urgent respectability.
The Bad huffing and puffing.

this is all i can do for right now:

2011-07-24T15:11:00.000-07:00

It’s true that three weeks ago my boredom took me to the Google Street View of London
I wanted to see the pub Amy Winehouse often frequented (2 Castlehaven Road London NW1 8QU, United Kingdom 020 7428 5979).
It’s true that I emailed a friend LIVING in London to ask what it was like there. She emailed me back saying to come visit and see for myself.

I read a quote from Amy Winehouse’s mother who said (in 2009) that she had already come to terms with her daughter’s death because it was inevitable.

I read a quote from Amy Winehouse herself who said (in 2008) that all she wanted was a husband and children.

It’s true that I wore my hair in a beehive yesterday.
It’s true that I’m wearing my hair in a beehive today.

It’s true that in the summer of 2007 I wore a beehive almost every day.
It ruined my hair for months after.

It’s true that in the summer 2007 all I did was listen to Amy Winehouse.
A summer of youthful, convenient self-indulgence which loaned itself to heartbreak (0% interest, on all accounts).
It was a heartbreak that came and went. Manic waves of self-doubt and accountability.

In that year, I had time for heartbreak. It was as beautiful as it was hideous. It was as exciting as it was dull. Makeup like Amy. Clothes like Amy. Emotions attempting to equal Amy’s. Artistry (assuming to be) equal to Amy’s. Youthful arrogance. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Sun tans. Skinny legs. Short skirts. Red bra straps. Giant gold hoops (which was as equal a metaphor as it was a reality).

The arrogance has been obliterated but the aesthetic (in some ways) has stayed.

A friend who knew me in the summer of 2007 (and not at ALL presently) contacted me five days ago (the day Amy Winehouse’s manager announced she was being forced into a temporary retirement) and asked if I’d like to join “the old bunch” for a party or a concert or…anything really, and I graciously declined afraid that: THIS summer of heartbreak would (somehow) transport me back to that era.
…
…
The night of her death (truly, truly) she was brought up in conversation. The question being: “who would win the fight: Lauryn Hill or Amy Winehouse?” I had the audacity to say, “Amy would. She’s dead inside. Lauryn at least has soul.” It was a cruel thing to say…I knew it even then. (this sounds juvenile. This sounds stupid. I sound stupid… …but it’s what I’ve been thinking about today.)

On topic. Not off topic. Listen up.

#1 my beehive started to fall apart mid-blog.
...
...
Go to the bathroom at work. An old woman enters the bathroom. The old woman goes into the stall and lets out a huge fart. The old woman leaves the stall to wash her hands. The old woman stares at me during the reconstruction of my hive and asks, “Did you like the show?”
I tell her I did. (because it's easier than explaining my job, etc).
She goes on, “I had to come here alone. My husband doesn’t like theatre”.
I tell her it’s not for everyone and she leaves wishing me a good afternoon.

#2 Mid-blog I received an email from my friend in London (the one mentioned above). It goes like this:
“I walked past Amy Winehouse's home today (which I've walked past so many times with no idea she lived there). Lots of flowers and cards around. Yesterday there were tons of people in big cars with cameras, but for the most part I think they're gone now. There's also a bunch in castlehaven, which is the place you emailed me about a few weeks ago (her favorite place in London).
"Honestly, I was never a huge fan, and not really affected by her death. But it is strange that I didn't know I lived so close to her house until yesterday. And I've walked through Camden Park (which her house backs up to) and never knew. She didn't live in a huge rich part of London, she lived in Camden, which is generally full of poor artists and has the Camden Market which I go to every week. The outside part of it looks like Hot Topic threw up all over the streets, but inside the actual market it's beautiful and fun. And the fact that she chose to live in Camden I find kind of special and nice. Ok, that's all I have. How are you doing?”

#3 I had a chat with a friend about Amy Winehouse and it goes something like this:
friend: fucking tragic
me: ((writing a blog about it right now))
friend: ah! I was having a beer at the bar of a California Pizza Kitchen just to escape the heat for 15 minutes
and I saw it on TV
me: :(
that sounds about right
friend: I think I yelled "Ahh, shit," out loud.
me: :( :(
i said, "are you fucking joking me?"
*kidding
not "joking"
and then a giant exhale
friend: yeah
me: (knife in the heart)
i want to say more
but i want you to read the blog
(it says everything)
friend: I will, either way.

define..."essential"...?

2011-06-19T14:04:00.001-07:00

for Varia

I wish I had the balls to answer calls from the “unknown”.
I wish I had never put myself in a place where I would receive calls from the “unknown”.
I wish I had the courage to ask for help.
I wish I had it in me to just walk away.
I wish we didn’t have a word for “regret”.
I wish “regret” could be expressed by saying, “Oohh…? How do you say?” (said in an Italian accent.)
I wish I knew Italian. But I know I never will. But I know I will try when I’m 52 and give up by the time I’m 52 ½. Residing myself in saying, “well, I always knew I’d never learn Italian.”
My favorite bit* from your latest entry was, “I wish singing voice” (Varia under an oppressive oak, wearing a yellow pinafore. Wide-eyed, tendrils)
*I hate when people talk about my writing and say, “Oh, you know! That one bit!”
Apologies.
I fear my writing will never be anything but “bits”.
(note for the following, note made on 6/21: i don't think i really believe this at all...and don't know why i put it there to begin with. i guess it's an easy way for me to accept my failure ((potential or other)) as a writer. still, the following will stay in the entry so as not to forget i once thought it. xo)
“Bits” are acceptable if you die by the time you’re 25 but clearly, I have not.
If you die, as a writer, by the time you’re 25*, and more than ten people of “importance” have found “merit” in your work, then your “bits” will become “works”. Wave the wand! (I wish singing voice!) “Bits, no more! These are WORKS!” I see myself behind these people (who are all wearing geek sheik glasses, waving their magic wands over some poor, dead soul’s pages) and I look as dumb as I feel…grasping to find something to say in Italian -- to impress -- all i can think of is, “spaghetti”.
*I don’t think it’s possible to truly be a Writer at the age of 25.

Giving What You Give or, In Response to You Saying, “i wish i knew how to think/say/write/do *anything* without having people see”:

I’ve been sleeping a lot.
I’ve been spending my days off alone.
I’ve been thinking about writing and not writing at all.
I’ve been getting sad around 3pm every day.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much fear.
No control.
I haven’t been jealous per se…but things have made me sad. That marriage and that death and hearing of that birth. I’ve been feeling incredibly fat and have spent more time applying makeup than I have been reading James Thurber. I’ve been mediating on grace and looking for redemption. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I come from a people much better than I. I know that this world is being built for disappointment. For paranoia. For destruction. For the loss of friends and relationships. We have officially become tools to a machine we cannot fathom. We know everything about everyone and if we don’t, we can find out what we need to know by just sitting alone. On our days off. Thinking about writing but not writing at all. Without these destruction's and distractions we’d have no reason to see that movie (which is actually horrible) or prescribe to that song (which actually makes no sense at all) or try on that dress or try that vodka or feel bad about smoking to the point that we smoke too much. I think, for the first time, in all of time, we don’t have a say in what we do. Free will is no more! Because the collective unconscious is deeply, truly understood and dissected by people pickled in greed.

But it’s not completely helpless. We can continue putting out our words. Keep creating plays and novels and stories (well…you’ll do that latter(s), all I can do are plays and I can barely do that). We can keep these blogs. Keep being honest. And vulnerable. This is how we can create our own destinies. And yes, They may read our words and condition them to THEIR grand plan, but they were our words to begin with. These things, our creative exposure, makes us aware. And hopefully we will encourage others to do the same….you encourage me to do the same. And, from here on out promise to be far more surprising and naked in my life and writing. This comes from you. And yes, your freaking blog.

You wish.
You wish.
You wish.
I fear.
I fear.
I fear.
Trying to recapture the hopeless romantic in me, I watch that one scene from “Strictly Ballroom” over and over and over again. Just like I did when I was 15. (the one where they’re dancing on the roof. Above them, the “Coca-Cola” sign. Below them, a lost father manically dancing by himself.) The actor who played the main character in “Strictly Ballroom” is, of course, a dancer. And of course, an actor. And surprisingly, a TV show host. He is also (!!!) a poet. I went to his website. Here’s a bit:

“The man who dreams of nothing
has nothing but dreams
The man who acts on his dreams achieves his goals
has an abundance of the stuff of his dreams
and importantly endless more dreams to dream
The man who does not act
eventually dreams of disenchantment
until finally
hope is lost and he dreams no more
and worse
he loses faith in the abundance that is he himself”
- Paul Mercurio, aka Scott Hastings
…
…
…?

IN CONCLUSION:
Wishing through the fingers is better than fearing through the heart.
I wish things could be undone. I wish that things could be arranged. I wish we could start over.
I think the “wishing” is better than the “residing”.
This, or course, is what I think you meant.
Because you know better than the rest of us.
And make us more aware through your words.
So there’s no need for me to explain.
But I wanted to say it anyways. xo

"STRICTLY BALLROOM" MONTAGE!

is this purified?

2011-06-06T15:15:00.000-07:00

PT. I
I first saw Ben Folds live when I was 20 and still living in Missouri. I wore tight jeans to make my ex-boyfriend cringe and swoon. I think it worked.
After the show we saw Ben Folds' wife leaving the venue.
A classic, black, sleek car (accompanied with driver) was waiting for her.
She got in the back seat. Looked out the window.
We made eye contact. I smiled and she rolled her eyes.
I remember she had nice hair.
I also remember thinking: “well, that relationship’s never going to work”.
I learned today, that I was right.
The divorce was finalized in 2007.(news to me)
The Juice:
He left her for their mutual yoga instructor.
Which proves what I’ve always suspected: A couple that Yoga’s together does not stay together.
She wrote an album about the divorce (debut,of course).
Ben says that “Way to Normal” has nothing to do with the divorce though many suspect that’s ALL it’s about. I lean towards the latter.
So, I spend a half hour reading her lyrics vs. his lyrics.
Spend another seven minutes looking at her shows available on YouTube.
Tim Robbins sang with her somewhere in LA. He plays guitar.
Apparently he left Susan Sarandon for Meg Ryan.
But Meg Ryan is now marrying John Mellencamp.

PT. II, MORE TO COME IS HERE
On the 147 I look at the beach, the lake, the people and happiness hits me in the back like a bullet. Smiles do not seem expected, they seem fucking necessary.

TWO EVENTS OF FREEDOM GIVE ME THE SENSE OF OWNERSHIP AND HOME.
I’ve been told since I was a child that I give things too much weight.
But the release of the weight (once it actually is released) is something I believe few experience.

IN ONE WEEKEND
#1 ____________
#2 ____________

This is my beach, this is my street, this is my home, and this is my existence.

I make a list of people I have known in Chicago and then I write a list of people who have left Chicago. These lists are written in the air with my index finger, the names burn and drift away like smoke.
This must be what it feels like to have a home.
This must be it. Barbaric. This is my clan. This is my tribe.
I survived and others fell away.
Lenard Bernstein could write an opera about this feeling, this experience...but I'm not a genius so my attempt will come across as arrogant.

Mistakes were made. People lived and gossiped and kissed and fled.
There, on the 147, I promised nothing of the like would happen again.
Not if I can help it.
Kindness has been my exclusive religion for well over a year and I have no plans of giving it up. For anything. I wouldn’t give this up for anything.

Because this is mine.

apologies on my absence. i've been back where i came from.

2011-05-05T21:13:00.000-07:00

Strange dreams. My grandmother’s house. Legs spread across the terrain of my bed. Phone calls made under the blankets. Walks around my childhood block. Too much Italian food. Old “poems”. Old plays with new ideas. New visions for new plays. Knock knock (it’s who you think it is). Coffee like milkshakes. Songs, thoughts, lyrics hitting me in the gut when they matter to me and no one else. Dresses, always dresses to the point of being obnoxious. Time is not real and neither is money.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti: Someone (Sean) once told me to read him and couldn’t believe I hadn’t already and then I forgot about him and then I rediscovered him when reading about Kerouac (typical, boring, SO predictable. That man is under my skin for better or worse). Ex. from Euphoria: “…I approach the state of pure euphoria / I find I need a largersize typewriter case / to carry my underwear in / and the scars of my conscience / are wounds imbedded in / the gum eraser of my skin / which still erases itself”. This is not the best part but it was the easiest to find. And somewhere between St. Louis and Chicago the first line made me laugh out loud. I (somehow/for some reason) had Big Sur on audio. Up to the highest decibel (starting in Joliet) I am frightened, and I don’t mean this in ANY pretentious or self-indulgent sort of way, I am FRIGHTENED at how much I understand the madness of the language. I feel it, I empathize. silence… that sickness… that sense of wander/wonder… loss, sadness, anger. Trying to get every experience under the sun to the point of being driven to madness. Your empathy drives you mad. Consumed by everyone else’s path that you forget your own … …. lost … …

Going through the photos at my grandparents’ house I find their passports. Travels to Afghanistan. Dated smiles and clothes. Here lie the passports of Elizabeth and Pershing Edele. I come home and place them next to my rolodex of Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day (s).
This is the word of the day.
And this was the word of the day yesterday.
This was the journey of today and now it’s gone.

This was The Prayer of Last Night
I pray for the world and all of humanity. I pray that we are patient. I guess…what’s that saying? Quick to speak, slow to…quick to listen, slow to speak. I pray for the world and all of humanity that we may be (what I just said). Or maybe this is just meant to be for me… but imagine how much easier my life would be if this were to actually happen..if I were able to… did I take the laundry out? Quick to speak, NO!I pray that the curses of the past shall be lifted…but wait that’s voo-doo. It’s not Godly.

Waves upon waves upon waves of neuroses in the darkness, so dark I can’t see the ceiling.

Crammed on a bus a young woman screams about her mother getting sued. God help us. I never want to get sued. You are me and I am you and you are she and she and him and they and we and they and their and her and here. What I KNOW is that I need stillness. I need peace. Quiet. Kerouac couldn’t find it at Big Sur so I don’t know how I'll find it in Chicago… …is this?…is this grief? Cotton mouthed and pale faced and hungry and tired.

Snooze button.

Set the coffee to start at 5:45 so when I wake up at 6:30 it’s ready to go, but I hit the snooze button so many times that by the time I wake up the coffee maker has shut itself off and the coffee is luke warm.
Not Peter or Paul or John or Matthew warm.
BUT LUKE warm.

I’ve been eating a lot of lentils. I’ve been smoking much less. I’ve been forcing myself to limit my coffee intake. I’ve been filled with dread and bursts of hope. I’ve been braiding my hair and smiling at strangers. I’ve been trying different shades of lipstick. I’ve been wondering who’s reading this. I’ve been trying to make light. I’ve been trying to be quiet. I’ve been trying to hold something inside … there... right there. A ball of light and memories caught in a cul-de-sac of recollection. Children are making me smile and the thought of boredom sounds exotic and intoxicating.

…or something like that.

and the holy sprit, amen

2011-04-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

Everyone is wearing flip flops or, have their bare feet hanging out on the 92 Foster. It’s cold and raining. I have to think about “why is everyone’s feet…?” for half a second and then it comes to me. ("white")

This bus takes me from Sheridan (by the Dominick’s) to Lincoln (by the Walgreen’s). Through the ride you pass dilapidated homes, nice homes, fancy homes (all of which are gated). Currency shops, liquor stores, gas stations, windowless storefronts claiming to sell fur coats. The bus moves quickly from it’s designated stops and slowly on the road. This proves to be a roller coaster ride of emotions when transferring and traveling.

Still reading The Selected Letters of Anton Chekhov (ed. Lillian Hellman)…(“white”)I was skimming it before but over the weekend something started to kill the sloth inside of me and I decided to read it cover to cover. Notes, introduction(s), EVERYTHING!

Where I’m At: Chekhov is 26 and writing to his little brother (who will soon die of TB and whose inevitable absence will be a very strong catalyst in Chekhov’s life) a lot. Reading Chekhov’s letters ("white") of apologies to his brother for “last night” is delightful and refreshing and...(bordering on "too white")

“I wonder what Sylvia Plath would make of Nelly Furtado?”
...
...
I think that. I ACTUALLY, GENUINELY, FURIOUSLY think that on the 92 as an elderly, Asian woman cries, screaming on her cell phone. I am so appalled by this thought - this completely WHITE thought that I take out my pocket journal (“white” “white” “white”) and write the following so as not to forget my sins:

#1 WHITE PEOPLE
#2 Sylvia Plath/Nelly Furtado
#3 The Cure
#4 Crying on Phone
#5 Chekhov

Last week a woman with a shaved head dropped a prayer book on the floor of the train, right at my feet. Jesus and his sacred heart staring up at me. I bent over to get it. She did too. But something moved me and I had to beat her to it. Am I drawn to the drawing of Jesus? Or do I just want to look and feel good about myself? (“Everyone…? Everyone, did you see this?”)…actually I think this happened more than a week ago, but I think about it all the time. And think about how I have to write about it… …I’m not sure why.

“IT’S GOOD FRIDAY!” My dad says.
“It is” I say.
“But 'Good' for who?”
“Good for everyone but Jesus.”
My dad laughs and goes on to say, “I’ve asked two people that today and neither of them knew what to say. But you did!”
“I did!”
“It’s a Catholic thing, Good Friday. They…” Actually I’m going to stop there. He said more…but I’m stopping there.

WHY HAVE I BEEN OBSESSING ABOUT BOB DYLAN? ~~whitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhite~~
“The Holy Spirit’s in him. You can tell by looking at him!” some guy…I forgot his name…said that about Bob Dylan in No Direction Home. I loved that.

(shivers)
Bob Dylan = movement. adventure. ownership. selfishness. part-time genius.
At least to me he = these things.

I hesitate to create a list called "White Girl Problems"...because I think...I don't KNOW...but I THINK...most women have the same problems. Basically. At the core...I framed a photo of Woody Gurthrie in our home yesterday. I stepped back to make sure all the frames were centered, balanced, alined...and I realized not ONE woman was there. Not one. (shivers).

Chicago is a pretty girl spitting in the street (updated 4.12)

2011-04-09T10:40:00.001-07:00

pt. I
let's elaborate in a bit, but savor that image.

pt. II
and of course, listen to this:

pt. III
I don’t know who this pretty girl is, but she’s there.
And she’s spitting, drooling and cleaning it up from her chin with a white glove.
Spring is BARELY upon us, and the tourists are already running amuck.
I apologize, Fair City, for ever being one of them.
Once when I was eight, and once when I was 21…I ESPECIALLY apologize for latter…because I was drunk.
I don’t want to be that person; I don’t want to be that person…
…
…
stand on the RIGHT side of the escalator so we Chicagoans can walk on the left.
A family of TEN holding an army of us back from hitting the pavement.
We exchange glances.
Urbanites ten feet ahead look back, and then we look back, letting everyone know what exactly the holdup is.
Ten People. Five of which are children. Four cameras. Ten pairs of ill fitted jeans.
I can’t believe I just said that. I can’t believe I’m not erasing it.
(petty) (petty) (petty) (petty) (elitist) (weird)
…
…

pt. IV

pt. VI
I started watching Twin Peaks and I'm taking a mental inventory of ALL the times someone has referenced it to me and I didn't know what they were talking about. That is: your references were weak and this show is AMAZING!!! DON'T REFERENCE THIS SHOW! It's not a text book! NO! IT IS AN EXPERIENCE! IT's THE BEST THING EVER! ERRRR! LIKE A DREAM!! It's magic! It's hilarious! And TRAGIC and it has found me (like a good friend) at the perfect time in my existence.

pt. VII, or sentimental
The weather is getting nicer and I've brought out some of my favorite spring gear.
And, of course, like a true Chicago Realist (redundant), I have left half of my closet stuffed with sweaters and tights and boots. CHICAGO IS A PRETTY GIRL SPITTING IN THE STREET. But nothing has felt more like home in all my travels or identities.
This. Is. It.
There's something about...mmm...HERE that has fed every natural, barbaric and magical part of my soul. Chicago has allowed me to BE me, without any apologies and plenty of guilt. Is this good? Is this bad? Every minute it changes. Because who knows? And this is life right? Always trying to be the best person I can be. Inevitably failing but constantly waking to a new way to improve and devastate.

persecution of smokers and other such visionaries

2011-03-04T10:30:00.000-08:00

i light a cigarette* and the old woman says to me,
"aren't you supposed to be 50 feet from the building's entrance?"
"No, it's 15."
my feet sink into the cement.
i'm. not. moving.

she's wearing a yellow rain coat.
toy poodle on a pink leash.
"I used to smoke" she looks me up and down.
I shift my head to display the red bow in my hair and my youthful skin.*
she sucks in her thin lips and huffs away.
(i hope the word "delinquent" crossed her mind...but i'm almost 30 and it's not 1963.)

my umbrella matches my lipstick and the spring(esque)rain matches my chemical levels and Adele matches my imagination. today is beautiful. my eye lashes are long and my nails are short. the ring he gave me matches my lipstick.

i have the same birthday as (with varying years):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulrike_Meinhof
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thom_Yorke
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_Minchin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Putin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flying_Lotus

old, yellow coat lady has the same birthday as (exact year too):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Hitler

And oh, my goodness look what I found!!!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilter

A: Where were you born?
B: Hilter.
A: Excuse me?
B: Hitler. Germany.
A: Oh, my!

IF I WERE TO ACTUALLY HAVE THIS CONVERSATION IT WOULD GO SOMETHING LIKE THIS:

Calamity: Where are you from?
___: Hitler.
Calamity: Like, you're one of his ancestors?
___: No, Hitler...Germany.
Calamity: I'm so confused.
___: Hitler, Germany. It's a municipality in the district Osnabrück, Lower Saxony, Germany. It is located in the hills of the Teutoburg Forest.
Calamity: So thorough. Thank you for explaining.
___: Sure.
Calamity: That...kind of sucks, huh?
___: Not really.
Calamity: That was obtuse*. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.
___: I get it a lot. But thank you for apologizing.
Calamity: How did that go under the radar? I mean, how did that fly in Post-War Germany?
___: I don't know.
Calamity: But, you're FROM Post-War Germany.
___: And you're from Post-War American.
Calamity: Am I?
___: That was so political.
Calamity: Ish.
___: Ich?
Calamity: No. Ish. i.e. kinda
___: Kinder?
Calamity: No, Kinda.
___: What "radar" are you talking about?
Calamity: Submarine. Like the kind in The Hunt For Red October. beep. beep.
___: ... ... ...
Calamity: Has it always been called "Hitler"?
___: I think so.
Calamity: You really think that there was a place in Germania called "Hitler"???
___: I don't think there was a place called "Berlin" in Germania.
Calamity: So you don't know. (that's wasn't a question)
___: I just assumed it had always been there.
Calamity: What do they call you?
___: Hans.
Calamity: No, like, if you're from Michigan you're a "Michiganian".
Hans: (heavy German accent) I don't know such place.
Calamity: Strange. The way you were speaking i assumed you were well versed in English.
Hans: Colloquialisms.
Calamity: Is that French?
Hans: The French! BAH!
Calamity: So what do they call you? Are you a...?
Hans: I'm a German.
Calamity: Or a...(whispers) Hiltergander-er?

*this trick will soon expire, so I use it when I can.

The Hague

2011-02-05T11:53:00.000-08:00

"It made me think of this guy and girl laying next to each other. He was a musician and she was in love with his music. She wrote for a magazine. He told her he was married and she said that she'd been married once but it didn't work for her. Then they kissed. Then they stared at each other for a while. He said, It's not that I don't love my wife, whatever that means. Then he said, This has nothing to do with my wife. She asked if this happened to him often, girls going back with him after a show. Not often, he said, but probably more often than for most people. He kissed her again and she pulled away and he apologized. I should go, she said. Do you want to go? he asked. She said she didn't want to go. He took a call from his manager. He held up a notebook for her where he'd written, Please stay. She liked his music. He liked the boots she wore, the way she crossed her legs. He talked about a new contract, nobody was offering anything, there was nothing to negotiate. After the phone call he thought, No one has been harmed. Then he thought, Someone is always harmed, as if you couldn't like someone without disliking them. There's only so much space in any room. Even the pedestals were riddled with termites. They were facing each other. She still had on her jacked and hat. He thought, She's as white as a cup of cream. She said, I know your wife. He said he figured as much. He kissed her neck. He turned on the television, people were being slaughtered. She said, This has everything to do with your wife. She pressed lightly on his shoulder. He closed his eyes so he could focus on her fingers running through his hair. He mentioned a restaurant he liked to go to. He said it was always crowded, but if you cut past the line you could find a seat alone at the bar."

Stephen Elliott --> the-daily-rumpus+subscribe@googlegroups.com

subscribe/donate. xo