Happy Birthday, René Descartes!

You thought, therefore you were;
after I have my tea, I will be.

Endlessly Fascinating

Settling In

Growing up, my mom taught me to never own any more than would fit in the car. This was back when we measured our life in toothpaste tubes: we had lived in such-and-such town for two toothpaste tubes; in another, for only half a tube.

It strikes me this morning how much I've failed. Between old typewriters and tea kettles, books and plants, gumball machines and lamps--sometimes I don't even know if I can fit it all in my home! Maybe this is what it means to settle in, settle down. It's not nearly as frightening (or dull or tedious) as I imagined it would be.

I roll the word on my tongue: settle. It makes me think of the sound that hangs in the air of an empty room just after the phone stops ringing; of bulbs planted in the fall; of down feathers and dreams half-remembered and turning the pillow in the middle of the night to find the cool side.

Night Sky

The strange thing about living in the city is you can go months without seeing the moon. My only grasp on its phases is when I see a sign at yoga for a full moon class.

I remember I had a student in Harlem once who wrote about the eight stars she had seen in the sky. Eight? I asked. Yes, she said, I counted them. Have you ever seen that many?

Millions, I told her, but she thought I was exaggerating. Really! I said, and she just laughed and laughed like I had just told her I was married to the man on the moon.

This morning, walking up my block, there were stars chalked all over the sidewalk, and a message: THIS IS FOR YOU!!!

I like to think that it truly was.

Sometimes I Miss...

living so close to the railroad tracks.

The Smoker

So...(INSERT THE NAME OF THE MAN I PROMISED MY LIFE TO--pictured here on our wedding day, reading the letter I wrote him and having his last cigarette as a bachelor)...yes, him, well...he has decided he doesn't want his "real name" used on the blog. We were out on the (very cold) patio this morning drinking our tea, and--

Him: It's just weird. I've got people googling me.

Me: Like who? That wackadoo girl from high school?

Him: No, not her. Clients. I have clients who google me. They don't need to know my whole life.

(He takes a long drag of his cigarette.)

Me: Hmm...I would think your green thumb would impress these "clients."

Him: They're in Asia.

Me: What? People in Asia don't like plants?

Him: Seriously, babe. Please.

Now, the task is to find a name to call (INSERT THE NAME OF THE MAN I PROMISED MY LIFE TO). I'm thinking "The Smoker." It's got a nice ring to it. As in: The Smoker wants to take me to Tahiti for my birthday; The Smoker and I once again donned fake mustaches; The Smoker wants a boy; The Smoker thinks I'm nuts. Thoughts?

Peep Show

(happy easter.)

SPRING BREAK '08!!!

So, Livs and I crawled into a little Volkswagen bug and hit the open road. I've gotta say, south of the Mason Dixon line's never looked so good.

Beads strewn from trees...

Majestic ruins...

Hair blowing wild in the wind...

Not so subtle reminders of mortality...

There was also the best fried chicken I've ever eaten, the lighting of bananas on fire, a short jaunt through Biloxi, a long drive through Jackson, a pageant to make you weep and a big ole order of chili cheese tater tots purchased at the Kentwood, LA Sonic known to be a frequent stop-off for the Spears sisters.

Now, home, and heck, I can't help but notice, my desk has nothing on the open road.

The Sadness of those who are not Botanists

Olivia and I are in a haunted hotel in Natchez, Mississippi. The player piano sits quiet. On the trees outside, a tiny white flower blooms, smells (she said) like just-washed hair; neither of us know enough about plants to identify it.

Sign seen in line at Airport Security

SNOWGLOBES FORBIDDEN!!!

No Attachments

There's a rule on the Brooklyn Bridge: "No attachments of any sort," so imagine how happy I was one morning on my run when I saw the "walk guy" with a bright red heart painted on his "chest."
Now imagine being asleep in some outer borough and getting the call, "Hey worker-guy, some crazy artist-type put a red heart on the bridge. This is insane! I said, no attachments of any sort! Now, get your can of white paint and get up there and take care of it!!!"

Uhm, yessir. (But, oh, you can't hide the love...)

Heartworms

Dad called, told me Sammy had gone missing. Sammy’s Gene’s dog. Gene walked all day out in the woods looking for him, didn’t even eat, got his legs all cut up with briars. Thelma, Gene’s neighbor, heard gunshots early in the morning, she said. They thought the neighbor on the other side might have shot Sammy. That neighbor’s been peeved at Gene for the longest time ever since Gene called the cops about the neighbor’s pig. Pigs are loud. Probably louder than you imagine. So Gene walked all day, his legs still hurt, and yelled for Sammy. Nothing. The pound had nothing. No Sammy. Gene was just brokenhearted; he loves that dog, slept with his blanket that night. Next day, there’s a knock. It’s the dog catcher; he’s got Sammy. Sammy had gotten lost in the woods, ended up going to the house they used to live in, opened the gate himself and was inside playing with a little bitty dog. The ole gal who lived there was scared out of her wits, called the pound. Gene was beside himself, crying, never happier. Dad and Gene took Sammy to the vet. All was good. They were worried he might have heartworms, but he was clean. Might live longer than any of us.

I am Human because I am not a Bird

I too am Human

Magic Poetry Boxes

As part of a series I've been writing
on teaching children who have disabilities,
I have a new article up on the Literature, Arts & Medicine website.It's about magic boxes and poetry and autism and spring.
Check it out: here.
And if you have a second, leave a comment.

The Blue Bowl

They are Hass's bees, the ones I keep thinking of, the ones in the blue bowl outside of the composer's door. Though they're dead, I can hear them hum beneath the petals. Today, I am hungry, have eaten apples and eggs, have warmed up pans and sliced up chicken, but still, the gnawing emptiness. Standing by the train this morning, I hugged my husband longer than usual. Don't leave, I said, and we laughed--of course, there is leaving. To leave, to return, to fill up, to be done. When I got home there was a note I had scrawled before dawn: throw out the fruit. All week, it has been sitting in its bowl on the counter attracting the tiniest of flies.

Something Else to Think About

Health & Fitness Tip #23

Lay off the B6.

[I've been battling this cold for a week so every chance I get I'm pumping myself with Vitamin C. The thing is I've been using the fizzily little packets that also contain just under 8o000% of your daily vitamin B6 needs, and as you may or may not know, Vitamin B6 helps you to remember your dreams which sounds really grand and might be if, say, I was trying to de-code DNA and that was the sort of thing I dream about, but my dreams tend to run a bit on the ordinary side. Take for example this riveting dream I had last night: I sat in a vinyl booth in Joplin with Erryn (Hi Erryn!) and Marsha drinking a Diet Coke through a straw. (I rarely use straws.)

Things seemed to be taking a deeper turn after I was magically transported back to Brooklyn where while rummaging through my cupboard looking for a cheese grater I found the rare acai berry! Finally, one of my students was telling me about a dryer full of pencils. He was sitting across from me talking but I could only hear his words if I read them. But what does it mean? I wrote in the margins. It's so the lead stays soft, he said. Easier to write. I nodded thoughtfully, put a little check-plus at the top of his dream-essay and capped my pen.

So I guess I'm wondering why people want to remember their dreams.

To make matters even more complicated, I've also been finding it harder to differentiate between my dreamworld and reality, i.e., my spin teacher profusely bleeding from her calf this morning while yelling, Don't worry about me! Just two more hills! But that's, perhaps, another story entirely...]

Heaven (with sprinkles on top)

Things to Save

My student, Tyquan, wrote this poem yesterday:

Things to Save

I don't want to save nothing,
nothing in the world,
but if I did, I guess I'd save money.
Gold. Silver.
I'd buy some diamonds
and give them to my mom.
If I had a whole lot of money
I'd buy my mom a house
covered with flowers.
It'd smell like springtime.

When Walls are Hands

Even though my mother liked to yell and scream
and threaten to beat me when I did it,
sometimes I miss writing on my hands.

Words, she said, are not candy

Last night I dreamed that I brought in an essay composed entirely of candy to my students. The words were written directly on the m&m's: storm, feast, strange.

But in my haste to hand out this delectable essay to the class (I was an hour late; I had been dancing in the snow; George Clooney was in the first row), the candy got jumbled. Words were strewn everywhere.

I woke up with a little song in my head: words are not candy, oh no, words are not candy. It reminded me of a short story I wrote in college where, in the final scene, the main character, Stella (what else were we to name our college heroines?), sits on top of the kitchen counter, takes a deep drag off of her cigarette and proclaims, Men are not just words. (I remember this being a revelation.)

And now I am thinking of other things that are not words: blue jays, torn slips, pulled muscles. A stack of essays sits on my desk waiting to be graded. I am hoping they are not just words either.

Things to Do Outside the City

Try new foods:

Receive friendly tax reminders:
Listen to your daddy practice his Bum Ditty: