Virtual Care Package

View from a skyscraper. Skyscraper of your choice. Anywhere in the world. To have the world at your feet. Literally. Immeasurably better than a pat on the back.

Long weekend watching Monty Python, eating whatever the heck you damn well please. And because I'm a fan, I'll throw in some DVDs featuring Will Ferrell, Vince Vaughn, Owen Wilson, and Ben Stiller. Let someone else make you laugh. Works wonders. And if what damn well pleases you should include

Homemade Italian food (and it should), then I've totally got that covered. The chef recommends the wild mushroom and goat cheese risotto, but the lasagna is also reliably delicious, as well as the eggplant parmigiana. In some circles, the braised short ribs and meatballs in my grandmother's gravy is acknowledged to be exquisite. By the way, I'll need preferences in advance as I am very particular about where I do my grocery shopping. I must mandate, however, that the menu include

Soup. Also homemade. Accompanied by tea, with honey and lemon. Warm liquids soothe the throat, and your voice should need soothing right about now.

Wine. Because, really, when can a person not benefit from some vino? It calms. For

Sleep. A lot more than you are currently getting. And to that end, you'll need

• The power to stop time for the rest of the world but continue living yourself, so you can actually sleep for longer than five hours at a time.
• Bedtime stories, lullabyes, and soothing affirmations in a foreign language. Originals, of course; slightly off-key, likely; in italiano, sì? Non c'è nessun altro nel mondo abbastanza come tu.
• Perpetually-cool, heaven-scented pillow of ideal firmness and fluffiness. Also requires you to specify preferences: so what does heaven smell like to you?
• Relative silence, excepting the white noise of nature. Because it isn't words that are the most important.

Resulting in...

Sweet dreams.

A new day.

Sunshine.

The open road. How much is ever enough?

...and eventually...

Home. A piece of architecture, yes, but that's not the home I mean. I mean the pieces of home that are so small they fit inside the house itself, and you fit inside of them--a sofa, a bed, a kitchen chair, a hug; and also the pieces that are so vast, the only place they fit is inside of you--joy, serenity, security, and hope.

A virtual care package is delivered in a sideless, topless, bottomless, dimensionless, timeless box, so if you have any particular requests just let me know. I'm sure they'll fit.

Maybe, After All

Oasis. (noun) 1. a fertile place in the desert, due to the presence of water.
Water: next in my series of poems, following Sky and Air. I haven’t yet a clue what it will say, but I know it will exist. Parallel: the existence of some people; me not having had a clue what I would say, now or then or someday; only knowing, somehow, doubtlessly, that they would exist.

2. any place or thing offering welcome relief from difficulty, dullness, etc.
It is possible that we don’t sense the dullness until the oasis appears. Desert and dullness both parch, but an emotional thirst can be repressed a good deal longer than a physiological. To be oblivious to its bluntness, to its rounding of your psyche like a soup spoon, is not so far-fetched.

“THERE’s a hole / there’s a hole / there’s a hole in the bottom of the sea…”
I’ve always had an affinity for nonsense songs, little me, singing them at the top of my little lungs, over and over until my parents’ ears bled peanuts and railroad tracks and hearts all-aflutter. Little me, sensing somehow, in some context, that nonsense made perfect sense.

ARE there ever songs that get stuck in your head, that play themselves a million times over in the jukebox of your mind, for no reason readily apparent?
MANY of them, I find, are prescient. Years later, they make meaning where before there was merely melody.
THINGS once ambiguous and immaterial take on sense and substance.
THAT I ever doubted their clarity seems absurd.
I never foresaw the need for an oasis; I never believed my life would require intervention.
WOULD you like to know when I figured it out? Only after.
LIKE months after. At my favorite table, in my favorite bookstore.

TO intend to write one thing, and have your pen be overtaken by a story you didn’t know you wanted to tell, about an oasis you hadn’t realized you’d visited, is to be jabbed repeatedly by a cold, blunt, soup spoon. At first, there is a chill. And maybe, you laugh. Because how could a dull utensil do any damage? You laugh.
SAY, for the first three drafts. Well...maybe four.
TO continue laughing, however, after you discover that something has pierced your skin, and indeed, gotten under it, is a sure sign of delirium. Or writeririum.
YOU realize it’s in deep when the pain seems a surer sign that something’s going right. Very right. There are thousands of words where before there was only a visceral impulse to run up onto life’s metaphorical stage and kiss the universe.
BUT you’d remained seated so long, nails dug painfully into your own thigh, that your fierceness had dulled into numbness.
I fear numbness now.

DON’T get me wrong. It doesn’t overtake my system, the way my textbook phobia of all things puncture-possible will have me hyperventilating in the fetal position. It’s a wonder I can even write metaphorical punctures, a miracle that I once pierced my own ear: testament to the veracity of the assertion that given sufficient motivation, any phobia can be overcome.
KNOW that my fear of numbness is more the pain of those first few taps of cold blunt soup spoon. A rhythmic chill and retreat demanding vigilance.
HOW I ever allowed myself to get to that place of oasis-desperation so thirsty it couldn’t acknowledge its own lack is beyond my present comprehension. A nonsense song yet to make any sense. Stuck in my head. On repeat. In hindsight, one message shimmering above the sand: don’t let it happen again. I detect the piercing need for a sharper reminder. Now I understand why some people get tattoos.

Wonder. (noun) 1. a person, thing, or event that causes astonishment and admiration. Initially, surprising to me that this is the first definition listed. Initially, I say, because contemplation yields sense. It is this wonder that births the next. Without it, no need for definition number two; without that which is a marvel to me, no words written. And that is why I thank you, I believe you believe, far too frequently. But I will not stop unless you tell me to. 2. the feeling of surprise, admiration, and awe aroused by something strange, unexpected, incredible, etc. It is a gift in return for which I ordain no amount of sincere gratitude to be excessive. As a writer, though, I loathe meandering unpurposeful repetition. Fortunately for me, an infinitude of ways to express wonder. I won’t run out any time soon.

(int. verb) 1. to be seized or filled with wonder; feel amazement; marvel.
I can write as long as I wonder. Writing can strike as long the iron-awe remains hot, lightning over the dark sea. 2. to have curiosity, sometimes mingled with doubt. Insidious doubt, electricity cackling through the undercurrent of my vast wonder—conducted to, pooling in, the hole in the bottom of the (my) sea. Awe and doubt: two sides of the same lightning bolt.

I fear your silence. Incommunication breeds numbness.
DON’T assume that because I fear numbness, I am blind to its power as a defense mechanism.
BELIEVE not q, then p. I see its power and therefore, I fear. Numbness can be cozy.
THAT is its threat. It lulls.
ANYBODY you ask can tell you ignorance is bliss: ignorance of your thirst quenches your fire. It
FEELS, at first, like a little death. Not the French le petit mort. No—that is far too pleasurable. But it requires the same surrender… I rethink… Perhaps it’s not so different after all, succumbing to the numbness.
THE relinquishment of responsibility halts the flow of electrical doubt—a reprieve from pain virtually indistinguishable from pleasure, in the
WAY falling asleep against the cool tile in the bathroom after grueling hours spent retching is the best you can imagine at that instant.

I do not wish to succumb to the numbness again. I must remain vigilant, even if means prodding myself with my own cold spoon.
DO you believe my doubt destroyed the moment of our mutual marvel?
ABOUT my inability to answer questions, to be verbal in my wonder, my silence indicating my incredulity of the incredible: I profess my responsibility, recognizing that I was the one who advanced to your soil, and also the one who started slapping mortar, laying bricks, doubting my welcome the louder you greeted me. I was given what I'd hoped for and was too stunned to properly receive it.
YOU know nothing of the depth of my regret. May you never. I wish my regret unwarranted.
NOW for the first time, I wish to be lightly informed of my unquestionably overactive imagination.

See how I redefine words for you.

Wall. (noun) 1. (and only.) a figment of my imagination.

Writer-girl, Interrupted

Music reminds me of you. I’m almost afraid to hit play. Because what if a song comes on and it makes me wonder where you are, and I don’t know, and I really really start wondering and I have to go out of my way to find a way to distract myself to stop thinking about you so that I don’t have to spend my time thinking about someone who is not thinking about me?

Sure, I have no proof that you are not thinking about me. But I don’t have any proof that you are either. So I guess I will write in silence. Once I start typing, I no longer hear the music anyway.

Like that day that you called and I had been writing for so long, staring at the computer so long that when the phone rang I didn’t even realize what I was supposed to do with it. The music had been playing all along but I hadn’t been hearing it. Some part of my mind that I didn’t even know was awake took over and answered, but I could barely make sentences. You started talking, then thought maybe I had no idea who it was, because my tone of voice didn’t change, as it normally does, when I realize that it’s you and you can hear me smile from there. So you identified yourself. I knew it was you. I always know when it’s you. I just couldn’t make sentences.

The music was still playing and I didn’t even realize it had been playing all along until I started trying to explain to you that yes, of course, I know who it is, but I can’t speak, I can’t make sentences, I'm trying to mute the music, but all I can do is listen to you talk, just the sounds, not the words, I can't comprehend the words exactly, but I know what you are saying is meant to put me at ease and somewhere in the back of my mind I just want to keep listening. But I can't just keep listening. I have to react. I have to say something, because you are worried now, that I'm not talking, that I'm not laughing, that I'm not giggling like the little girl I was when first we spoke, when last we spoke, when every time in between. I can't just keep listening, but I can't seem to make sentences either.

It wasn't me listening to you that day; it wasn't me that answered the phone. Because if it had been me, the me that always wants to talk to you, she would have said something, she would have reacted the way you expected her to, warmly the way she always does when you say something light and silly and unforgettable, a future secret. It wasn’t that me. I know it because that me would have first been aware of trying to hide the excitement in her voice when she answered the phone so you wouldn’t know, because she’s too cool to let you know all the time, how happy she is to see your name on the caller id.

It was another me. The one who’d been far, far away, staring at the computer screen, not even hearing the music. Probably formulating some words that she wanted to write about you. She was writing about you somewhere in the back of her mind, silly boy. That’s why she didn’t smile through the phone when she heard your voice. She was writing about you.

What It's Like to Be Me

“What I love about you,” he tells me, “is that you don’t make mistakes. With numbers. Your taste in men—not so good—but your math is flawless.” I study him and try to see what other girls see. He is my friend. I spend most of our time together running interference for him. He would argue this, but he breaks hearts. His eyes are clear and green. He is beautiful. He would argue that as well. The girls are not heart-broken to be separated from his naturally shrewd business sense or his artist's eye. Probably no contention there.

We hug warmly, his arms wrapped around me, his body against mine. People see us and assume the most. None of it is true. In private, he musses my hair—what remains of it after ordering the stylist to chop it off in a fit of post-adolescent frustration over guys telling me “don’t cut your hair.” It is short, pixie-ish. “You don’t need long hair to be sexy,” he tells me. “Wear your glasses. I love hot smart girls with glasses.” My fingers trace the tribal band around his upper arm.

We have no shame about changing clothes in the same room. His boxers are low as he pulls up his pants; fluorescent light bounces off the sharp lines of his bare hips. Aesthetically fascinating—so different from what's under the waistband of my jeans. His angles bring to mind the geometry of the architectural studies he sketches for homework. I wonder if he would rather be penciling curves.


We dance in the lobby of the local diner, to disco songs we sing off key. “Older sisters,” he confirms. “Girls like to see your feminine side, as long as that’s not all they see.” He dances just close enough to make me wish he’d get closer. He knows too much for seventeen. So do I, but that’s because my dance partners are always older. High school boys are afraid to look you in the eyes when you’re dancing. Not him. His eyes are golden-brown, and they match his hair.

He shows up on my back porch and asks me to his senior prom. I say yes. He shows up on my back porch and says we ought to be just friends. I say “I guess.” “But,” he asks, “you’re still coming to the prom with me, right?” I go, because I have a fabulous sequined dress that I want to wear again, and because he can dance.


His lips taste faintly of coconut. It’s not chapstick or anything; it’s him. Always faintly of coconut--sweet but still masculine. I watch as they draw back into a smile and I know without looking up that he is glancing down. That’s what he does when he’s about to cast aside inhibition. He will kiss me again and his eyes will shift to the greener side of hazel, and I will know what he is thinking.


“When you look at me like that, I think of chocolate.”
“Well, we are in Starbucks,” he laughs. “I’ll get you a brownie.”


I know his eyes are cobalt, but I can’t see them. We are on the phone, debating competitiveness and office politics and drive. I ask him leading questions; he makes me define my terms. A screech cuts through the phone signal and for a few seconds, we are kids, giggling, bickering in the school yard. “Was that you?” “No. You?” “Well it wasn’t me.” Boyish. Charming. Then back to business. I ask him questions requiring statistics, and gauge his facility with numbers. I put words in his mouth. He cuts in. I talk over him. He says: “listen.” And I do. I stop mid-sentence. It is a small submission I do not begrudge. He doesn’t call himself a writer, yet he always uses his words precisely. And I want him to talk some more, because the sound of his voice makes me squirm.

He pauses, making sure my abrupt stop is not just instinct. He wants to know it is a conscious decision to yield. I wait--willingly, because he seems aware of the crucial but delicate balance. Without my willingness, his power has nowhere respectable to go. Acknowledge my authority and I will want yours. He modulates his drive as well as he does his voice, something feral only flickering occasionally—in the silences, between his careful phrases, when I catch him off-guard. Always tantalizingly close, but clearly well under his control. I hear assurance in his voice as he speaks of ambition, and imagine how lamplight looks playing across the skin of his bare hips.