My apologies…

For being such a blog-abandoner, for so long. It wasn’t you, it was me. But, why waste time pandering, you know? (I mean, on my end, not yours, for you surely are not pandering and need not pander, and I tell you this true right here and right now. Don’t you pander. Don’t you do it. Stick to your gut, don’t give in just to satisfy others.) It was a lapse, and I’m sorry for it, but we must move forward.

—

Oh, you’re pissed? You don’t feel you can trust me anymore?

—

Look, I don’t know what I have to do to prove to you that I’ve changed. Because I have. Oh, you want proof? How am I supposed to live like this? Constantly under your oppressive thumb? You have weird thumbs, and that’s even besides the point.

—

I’m sorry I took it there. I think your thumbs are so unique. They are exquisite. You are exquisite.

—

No, well. No. I’m not pandering. I’m just trying to be a nice, honest person. Yes, your thumbs are truly weird, but they’re also unique. Things weird can also, and typically are also at least kind of cool, sort of, or whatever. So don’t you go on and say all that to me, when all I’m trying to be is kind. Oh geez, you know what? It’s becoming near impossible to have a simple conversation with you. To make a simple apology. Because you’ve always got to make it into some big-freaking-deal. You lack patience and you lack–

—

Oh, I see.I lack patience? You think you can win this by spinning it straight back to me? Right. That’s a laugh. A real haw-haw. You’re deluded, you know that? De-luded. An apostrophe in a word that requires no such punctuation. An interruption in something that was working just fine before you curved yourself between the good and the good and made it all turn wrong-rotten.

You know, all I’d wanted to do was to tell you what was going on in my life, because I care about you. Because I want you to know that even through the conferences, and the swanky parties, and the homes I’ve witnessed in other cities with other cars and other streets and other dogs–some with very nice, brightly-painted shingles (the homes) and doors and little gardens that look just the right amount of tousled and over-grown–and the people I’ve met, who often know a great deal more than I do about all of this stuff and this whole world and are pretty much across the board nice and generous and kind-hearted and genuine and helpful–I always miss you. You remain there in the back of my skull, a consistent presence. I do not pass a day without wondering on you. You are there, whether we are in touch, or we aren’t. You will always be there. A pang in my heart. A tug in my lobe.

And that’s what I, really, wanted to convey. So, un-ruffle those feathers, and sit beside me here, and let us just hold hands and breathe together and not need to speak. Let us just be grateful.

—

Oh, I’m a hippie?

—

Fine. No, you’re right. You’re right. I am.

Cornered

A few months ago, I was asked to contribute a bullying-related story to be included within a collection my lovely friend Rhoda Belleza was compiling and editing, and received two advanced reading copies of said collection in the mail the other day.

So, here’s what you need to know: It’s called Cornered, it features fifteen stories of bullying and defiance (as described in its subheading), and it comes out in July. And it’s glorious. I will most likely slot in more reminders closer to its release date, but, for now, let’s leave it at that.

On a related note, I saw The Neverending Story today (in the theatre! I cried!), and can think of no better examples of bullying and defiance than Bastian’s own journey from dumpster to luck dragon.I challenge you to prove me wrong! JUST TRY. YOU WILL FAIL.

DUMPSTER:

LUCK DRAGON:

Wow. He really showed ‘em.

 

more like RAD-io. (yep.)

I’m realizing, even in a pretty cursory scan of my previous posts, that I severely over-use the word “creepy.” Now, I’m not here to apologize for doing so, or to promise anything like a change-in-ways (for I foresee “creepy” and I having a long and successful relationship), but I just wanted to let you know that I know. So, now that that’s cleared up, we can all move on, more self-aware but no more reassured in the prospect of a future no longer plagued by excessive creepy-ness.

So, I just did this wild “radio-tour” that started (WAY TOO EARLY) (for me) (I’m a REAL wuss) this morning and closed up proverbial shop around twelve fifteen. My brain didn’t actually click on (couldn’t find the switch. ha. ha.) until at least the third interview, and so who even knows what wilds spilled from my lips in those first wee minutes. One of my first interviewees somehow got the impression that I was some kind of award-winning front-line war-journalist, and, though I wish I could boast a career as an award-winning front-line journalist, it was certainly an odd impression to have to disabuse on live radio.  It’s also entirely possible she said something completely relevant and factual, and my own brain heard “award-winning front-line journalist,” as a sort of garden-variety wish-fulfillment scenario.  I mean, like I said…it was just…obscenely…ungodly early.

A little later on, I chatted with a delightful gentleman named Tron (for real), in Colorado Springs, and was called “freaky” by Ron, of “The Big Show,” in Boston. He just picked up on that right away, I guess. Oh, Ron.

All in all, a divinely creepy (fun)(weird)(sleepy)(interesting) morning.

Area Cat Finds Yoga Sutras “tedious” and “soporific”

Accursed rational brain, and, sandwiches.

“You get your intuition back when you make space for it, when you stop the chattering of the rational mind. The rational mind doesn’t nourish you. You assume that it gives you the truth, because the rational mind is the golden calf that this culture worships, but this is not true. Rationality squeezes out much that is rich and juicy and fascinating.” Anne Lamott.

YES. And, what a high order it has come to be–to make space for intuition, for those feelings in your gut that tell you something’s creepy, or wonderful, or, you know, whatever it is. It’s hard to make decisions, and it’s hard to know what’s right because our brains are glutted with all sorts of daily cloudy shit, and because it’s hard to let go of things, even when your gut tells you you must, to be sane, to be healthy.

I’m learning it is normal to be confused. That’s what the brain does. It challenges the gut, because it must. It turns every instinct we’ve got into an electoral debate. All we can hope sometimes is that that shit doesn’t turn republican.

But, maybe we already know exactly what we should do. Maybe we should live by the wormy cludge (*I’ve just invented this word, I think: let’s define it. Cludge: an amalgam of “sludge” and “clutch,” as in: Before it even came to pass, Rutherford understood the situation would end badly by the cludge in his belly.)  This probably does not work. But, well, I intuitively grasp the meaning of this word, by which I mean–I understand it, viscerally, and so, I shall use it, without worrying what you will think. I shall not allow my life to be dictated by the minds of others! I declare!

Even now, I wonder: should I eat a sandwich from the most delicious sandwich shop in the world? You’d think this would be an easy decision. But, herein lies the endless battle. Does it make sense to walk all that way for a sandwich when I’ve probably got other things I should be working on? Am I truly hungry enough to make indulging in such a sandwich worth it? And, then, if so, what sandwich would I even eat? It’s all just TOO HARD.

I will leave you now, to sit here, and meditate on my decision. To live in the present, is all. Right? To understand what will truly nourish you. To figure out if a sandwich is merely a distraction, or a necessity.

(Okay, let’s not waste any time here. This sandwich thing is definitely happening. Rich, juicy, and fascinating. Yes. It will be all of those things.)

In New Orleans, people dance.

It’s true. I got to visit this magical, mystical land in order to help promote The Butterfly Clues at the Winter Institute–an independent bookseller’s conference-y thing at a shmancy hotel in the french quarter. Now, it must be noted that never have I ever, in my adult life, had someone pay for me to travel somewhere I really wanted to go (or, even somewhere I didn’t want to go), so this alone was pretty thrilling for me. I took full advantage of the bewildering luck of all this by staying on an extra three days, with friends, outside of the touristy-realm.

I think what I found most heartening and glorious about the whole experience was that it’s a place seemingly built on “good living”–this is how the friend I was staying on with described it, or something like this at least, to avoid heinous misquoting and the like. “The big easy,” is how it’s also known, among other things like crescent city (which has something to do with its being situated around the Mississippi, I think. Oh, god, I could be getting all of this wrong, in which case, please first forgive, and then correct me.) New York living is built around ambition, and success, and seemingly endless striving. It’s not meant to be a “comfortable” place to exist; it’s challenging, it’s built to be challenging, and I don’t know a single person who lives here expecting otherwise. There’s plenty that’s amazing about the struggle and aiming-for and mad rush of humanity you experience living here–it forces you to work harder to find ways to feel calm and grounded and happy, which is a good skill to start grappling with as early on as you can start a’grapplin, and, it’s a place full of amazing artsy-and-otherwise energies…and food. But, it can also be one of the most anonymous and lonely places ever, especially at first, especially when you haven’t yet found your way into some of the wonderful communities that do exist here.

Oh, and people in bars don’t dance.

BUT THEY DO IN NEW ORLEANS. YES.  In like a dance-for-your-own-enjoyment kind of way. And, they say hi to you, on the street! And you say hi back, and it isn’t creepy! Wild! A place where the norm is friendliness, and openness, and SEVENTY DEGREES in January? They don’t want you there if you’re not into being a nice, decent person! I wore goddamn backless summer dresses the whole time and sipped iced beverages on benches and saw lots of cool dogs and walked around, wide-eyed, joyful, like it was my fucking job. I’m also a real sucker for older people who call me “baby,” in a non-creepy, totally grandparent-y way of course, and that happened, too.

On the downside: hard place to be a vegetarian, but, not impossible.

Another upside: found a book of poems by Mary Karr in a cool old bookstore, crammed to impossible, creaky heights with old books that smell just as old books are supposed to smell. (You know what I mean.) I’d been wanting to read her poems for awhile, and had trouble finding them browsing through used book stores around here, and so it was an exciting find.

Whew. In other news: if anyone’s around on February 8th: I will be reading: at the New York Public Library (I’ll get back with exact location soon): at 6 PM. And then my roommate and her band will be playing at Pete’s Candy Store in Brooklyn at 10. So, meet me at the ‘brary and hear me, and several other YA authors, read some stuff, and then follow me to BK for some music!!

 

 

Cats, Ponies, Planes

One of my roommates, Annie, sat on a plane next to a lady named Matthea Harvey, who happens to be a poet I sort of adore. She also, to my great relief, happens to be an excellent comforter in times of very-high-altitude wind-tossed distress, and held my dear roommate’s hand as she trembled in her seat, and told her everything would be just fine, and showed her photos of her cat. This is exactly the kind of thing you need to see when in such a situation. Cats. They are the only solution to total, inconceivable terror. But not a bunch of cats, because cats in large groups are TERRIFYING. (I worked on a farm in Spain for a short period of time in 2009 and experienced just this terror every time I’d refill the cat food and about eighteen creatures would sprint in and set upon that bowl all at once, like vultures to a fresh carcass. Cree-py.)

Anyway, in homage to Ms. Harvey’s generosity, and, of course, her talent, I present this delightfully playful prose poem, mostly about ponies (another surefire solution to any kind of discomfort!) It sort of reminds me of Donald Barthelme, if you’ve ever read any of his stuff (WHICH YOU SHOULD! IT’S AWESOME. AND I’M WRITING IN CAPS LOCK TO EMPHASIZE JUST HOW AWESOME HE IS.)

Anyway, without further ado, I present:

THE CROWDS CHEERED AS GLOOM GALLOPED AWAY

Everyone was happier. But where did the sadness go? People wanted to know. They didn’t want it collecting in their elbows or knees then popping up later. The girl who thought of the ponies made a lot of money. Now a month’s supply of pills came in a hard blue case with a handle. You opened it & found the usual vial plus six tiny ponies of assorted shapes & sizes, softly breathing in the styrofoam. Often they had to be pried out & would wobble a little when first put on the ground. In the beginning the children tried to play with them, but the sharp hooves nicked their fingers & the ponies refused to jump over pencil hurdles. The children stopped feeding them sugarwater & the ponies were left to break their legs on the gardens’ gravel paths or drown in the gutters. On the first day of the month, rats gathered on doorsteps & spat out only the bitter manes. Many a pony’s last sight was a bounding squirrel with its tail hovering over its head like a halo. Behind the movie theatre the hardier ponies gathered in packs amongst the cigarette butts, getting their hooves stuck in wads of gum. They lined the hills at funerals, huddled under folding chairs at weddings. It became a matter of pride if one of your ponies proved unusually sturdy. People would smile & say, “this would have been an awful month for me,” pointing to the glossy palimino trotting energetically around their ankles. Eventually, the ponies were no longer needed. People had learned to imagine their sadness trotting away. & when they wanted something more tangible, they could always go to the racetrack & study the larger horses’ faces. Gloom, #341, with those big black eyes, was almost sure to win.