you, who are reading this right now

i want you to know that i love you.
you, who are reading this right now.
you, specifically.
i love the shape your mouth makes when you smile.
i love the way you choose which shirt you'll wear each day.
i love that your face relaxes ever so slightly and you get a faraway look when you think of that one summer.
(if you think for a minute, you'll know the one.)
i love that you hang in there with your family,
complicated as it sometimes is.
i love that you wonder if you're doing the right thing, the brave thing, the smart thing.
i love the way you get out of bed
and the way you get into bed.
and also
i love the way you blink.

i want you to know that i love you the way i love these things:
driving over water
swimming in water
drinking water
the memory of the superslide on burlap sacks with cousins and dad at the fair
the moon and the sun, at the right times
driving with the windows down
the texture of hay, dirt, rocks, and root vegetables that haven't been washed.

you, who are reading this:
i want you to know that i love you.

basted

the second installment in a week-long exploration of the rituals of apologizing

she sits and she stews.
bubbling broiling basting baking in a badbadbadbadbadbad soup
her nostrils are flared
(which she doesn't know).
she is biting her lower lip
on the inside
(which she doesn't realize).
she is super duper bigtime watch-out-honey this-is-gonna-hurt
pissed.

and no one speaks to her for a few minutes
because
well
because they know better.
and no one tries to help
because
they've seen this before.
and everyone just waits
because eventually
she
will
blow.

and when she does, she will send flames shooting up the walls / she will scratch the paint off the coffee table / she will rip up the curtains with her incisors and crunch gravel with her molar teeth.

after all that
she will stop.
and maybe cry a little bit.
or a lot.

because she knows that she's made a mistake.
she is the one who screwed this up.
she is the one to blame.

and because no one is harder on her than she is on herself,
this makes her skin feel hot and her head feel like it's crammed very very full of those little styrofoam peanuts,
and it will take her a long time to get to

i'm sorry.

a place called front porch

the fourth installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of starting again

citronella and cigarettes
the tiny glow of five candles scrounged from various corners of her apartment
and assembled here
on a dusty little table
beside a makeshift ashtray
(she doesn't smoke, but he does.)
her chair creaks as she lifts her butt and folds her feet underneath her in the seat.
wine sloshes as he pours too quickly into each of their glasses.
a car goes by
headlights over-brightening the railing, their faces, the front door
and then it's gone.
she notices the envelopes poking up out of her mailbox
the cobwebs in the corners of the windows
the way she is blinking a lot like some kind of weirdo
and tries to relax.
he is a kind person.
he is not noticing these things.
a breeze blows through as if to remind her
that this is new
fresh
that there is possibility here.

much

part two in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

she doesn't care for the beach much
but
this is where they have wanted to come
every year
since the oldest one could say the word ocean
so
she packed the sunscreen the bathingsuits the raggedy towels
and proceeded to have fun
their way.
she got tangles out of hair
she held hands jumping over waves
she made rules about how late they could walk on the pier without a grownup.
today
she sits on the porch of the rental, half-reading her book as they and their spouses unload the cars
bringing in water wings and sand pails and sunshades.
she watches them swarm into the kitchen where she earlier unloaded the only kind of macaroni the toddler will eat, the favorite potato chips for the son-in-law, the special milk for the one with allergies
all things she knew to bring without them even asking.
she feels the place fill up with her favorite kind of noise, the unconscious noise of family, and keeps it to herself that
she doesn't care for the beach much.

an offer of help (softened with a sprinkle of movie)

part six in a week-long series all about the rituals of being friends

in the voice of two new characters, gary and tim

hey man how's it going
it's alright man how're things with you
can't complain
yeah
well i could but wouldn't nobody listen so
i hear that
nice out here right
oh yeah
wouldn't want to be the one to have to cut this grass though
need a tractor mower for this place
something
welp
hmmm
[insert movie quote here]
[insert movie quote rejoinder here]
[insert laughter here]
so y'all gonna move again?
ah i don't know
yeah
[insert movie quote here]
[insert movie rejoinder here]
i don't know we're trying to figure out somewhere a little bit cheaper but there ain't much out there man
yeah
i don't know
what kind of stuff are you lookin' for
what kinda house?
house job both
oh anything really anything for either one
i hear you
yep
well let us know if y'all are movin' and you need some help i know jennie can't be carrying anything
thanks man thanks appreciate that
yep no problem man just let me know

one hundred and seven puzzles

in celebration of july 31, the anniversary of the day my husband and i got married, this week’s blog posts will be about the ways we mark the passage of time.


in the voice of a new character, john

i have one hundred and seven.

one hundred and seven that are complete.

i hang them on the walls of my shed out back.

but i might move them here to the house if i can convince janet.

i probably can't convince janet.

that's okay.

they look good in the shed.

they're all the same size, so they fit together real good on the walls.

i only do 5,000 piece puzzles.

40 by 60, not 42 by 62.

i like them all to be the same size.

i do one every month, you know.

mostly i work on them at night, after supper and before i watch the eleven o'clock news.

i have to stop at 10:47 because it takes me thirteen minutes to brush and floss my teeth before the news comes on.

i like to watch the news in bed, and i don't want to have to get up out of bed to do my teeth after the news is over.

sometimes it's hard to stop when i'm in a pivotal place in the puzzle, but i do.

i always stop at 10:47.

or earlier.

this one is from february, but i don't remember what year.

i know it's from february though because i was cold when i worked it.

that part there in the trees was really hard, and i remember i was wearing my orange gloves when i was trying to get it done.

it's hard to work a puzzle with gloves on.

but i needed to have them on anyway because it was really cold in the house because i forgot to pay the heat bill for a few months in a row and they cut the heat off.

i was kind of a mess then because janet had left me.

she left in november, and i didn't pay the bill for november, december, january, or february.

february is when they finally cut it off, when i was working this puzzle.

eventually, i paid it all and they cut the heat back on and janet came back in april when i was doing this puzzle over here with the tower of london on it.

that was a long time ago.

i'm running out of room out here in the shed.

maybe i'll try asking janet again about hanging my puzzles in the house.

what are your befores and afters?

in celebration of july 31, the anniversary of the day my husband and i got married, this week’s blog posts will be about the ways we mark the passage of time.

lately, i am thinking about the eras in our lives, the ways we measure our "befores" and our "afters."

global standards dictate that the timeline of human history is measured in b.c. and a.d.--or sometimes b.c.e. and c.e.  but i'm more interested in how each of personally marks time.

my memories tend to get automatically passed through the "before daddy died" and  "after daddy died" filter.  i reckon that could sound morbid, but i'm guessing i'm not the only one who has discovered that one of those "before-and-after-death-of-loved-one" filters got installed in my brain without my realizing it.  

i also have the "before baby was born" and "after baby was born" measure, "when i was in chicago" marker, a "when i could still eat gluten" and "gluten-free era" label, and a "when i was in the green/blue/yellow bedroom" filter from the musical bedrooms me and my siblings played growing up.

when i'm writing or performing a character, i often try to identify a moment in which things change for that character.  now i'm curious to think about characters in terms of their "befores" and "afters," the filters through which they catalogue their lives, the ways in which they mark time.

so, you can help me write stronger characters.  let me know:  what are the "befores" and "afters" that mark time in your life?

lemme tell you

in the voice of a character, patty

oh yeah have the brownie it's awesome.
and do you know where you're going for dinner?
lemme tell you:  there is a restaurant
down by highway twelve
that will
knock
your
socks off.
i had to be rolled outta that one, lemme tell you.
but you know what?
you don't wanna go there tonight.
they don't have tvs there and you won't be able to watch the gymnastics.
don't tell me but i bet you probably love the gymnastics, right?
you look like you would watch the gymnastics and you know i do too.
i watch them girls flippin' around on the mat and on that balanced beam and on the vault and all.
it scares the life outta me when they go on the balanced beam but it's like i can't stop watching.
right?
so don't go down by highway twelve tonight;
go to john's instead.
john's always has the tvs on and you can see 'em from all directions.
and when those little ones are on the balanced beam, you hold your breath.
that's what i do.
i just hold my breath and lemme tell you i hope they don't land on their privates if they fall.
okay, you all take care now.
very good talking to you.
you're nice people.

a place called corner store

the bells have jangled twenty-two times today.
it's 10:21 in the morning.
the green 7-up clock above the cigarette display case is about 7 minutes fast.
it reads 10:28.
there's a little patch of sun coming through the front window,
peeking in between the flyers and the advertisements and the lotto ticket station,
warming up the place on the counter where the mini peppermint patties used to sit.
the girl who works the afternoon shift moved them yesterday because they were getting too melty.
the man behind the counter now is thumbing through a book,
folding down pages when he sees something he wants to come back to.
it's a book about organic gardening,
which makes the man who just walked in to grab a pack of tums curious about this man behind the counter.
he doesn't ask any of the questions that run through his head.
he just pays, glances at the book again, and leaves.
the man behind the counter caught the look and took it as a judgment against him,
even though it wasn't.
he misinterpreted.
but then the tums man is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
there is a woman standing over the chest freezer with the ice cream treats.
she has been there for at least 9 minutes.
she's deciding.
it's taking her a really long time to decide.
she opens and shuts the freezer twice without getting anything out of it.
then she pivots abruptly, grabs a pack of honey-roasted peanuts off the endcap, and plunks it down by the register.
the long-delayed decisiveness surprises the man behind the counter,
and he laughs.
she doesn't notice his laughter because she gets distracted by the thought of the bill she forgot to pay, so she stays silent when he laughs and she pays and leaves.
the man behind the counter caught her silence and took it as a judgment against him,
even though it wasn't.
he misinterpreted.
but then the peanut woman is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
the door jangles again, and a lady pokes her head in.
she tries to talk to him while still standing outside so that her words flow in at him while the smoke from her cigarette flows out toward the street.
he hates cigarette smoke, but he likes her eyes and her round shoulders.
as she has done every day for the last 21 days he has worked,
she smiles a huge grin at him and starts their conversation with, "hey darlin'."
she's trying to find out whether he has any virginia slims 120s yet.
the man from behind the counter isn't from around here and thinks "hey darlin'" means she's attracted to him,
even though she's not.
he misinterpreted.
but then the virginia slims lady is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
the 7-up clock is ticking loudly, and he can smell the grape blow pops.
they are giving him a headache.

kind

a kind man
he is a just a very kind man.
knotted fingers younger than they look
from years of building things at work building things at home fixing things at other people's houses and under other people's cars
because he is a kind man.
slowly
he speaks
slowly.
he doesn't pause between his words but he doesn't rush them out of this mouth either.
he doesn't feel that what he has to say is the most important thing to say
so if it doesn't get said then that's okay.
for him
there is no such thing as running out of time.
there is just
time.
he is one of those rare people
now
who really notices the weather
every day.
he takes it in
acknowledges it
in some way he communicates with it.
his brother has watched him do this for years
and believes that this intimacy
this frank communion
with the weather is the reason he is so
rooted
and so kind.

insidious

i have been paying attention to all your whispering
to the crickets you set up all around my bed chirping in my ears at night
to the caterpillars you let loose to wriggle up my arms and down my legs
to the tiny furry mice you sent to nibble on my fingertips and scrape their teeth against my ankles.
the sound of your skin rubbing as you wring your hands
quiet as it is
has caught my ear hundreds of thousands of times
drowning out the deafening blare of my own gurgling gut
of my own rushing blood
of my own snapping nerves.
you are insidious
not malicious
but insidious
and i've got to root you out.

a place called lobby

"it was hiLARious."
"it was FABulous."
"it was aMAZing."
heady praise bounces off leather couch cushions and collides with out-on-the-town jewelry and neckties.
clinkety clink cheers
clinkety clink couldn't have done it withouts
clinkety clink thank yous
clinkety clinkety clinkety glug glug glug
fuzzy champagne smiles swim around in a warm, perfume-y soup
high heels on concrete floors counterpoint hot staccato lady laughter
and the men shake hands and do their rooster dances mostly in the corners.
green plants, popped up and fresh from their morning watering, 
stand guard in front of power strips,
can lights,
and a forgotten pair of scissors that the box office staff was looking for all afternoon.
bathroom doors, swooshing open and shut,
secret away the looking-in-the-mirror faces,
the bra adjustments,
the nose-pickings,
the clandestine text messages that aren't appropriate for public consumption.
exit signs, with their red glow and honest lettering,
peer down to bear witness to the enthusiastic tangle of women and men
giddy at having come together
to affirm their humanity
by watching it play out on stage.

mintier

we can hear her laugh crackling down the hall
long before she busts through the door,
leopard-print shirt drizzling from those bony elbows,
eyes shiny with delight and long swoops of electric blue eyeliner.
the energy in the room is measurably higher
joules bouncing off chairs and tables and v-necks and strappy sandals
decibels tilting up and up and up
all of us burning more calories as we
turn it up
turn it on
take our turn romping around in the light she gives off.
she is
as ever
happy to see everyone
taking each face in separately, distinctly, uniquely
in its own time.
it's clear that now
the pesto tastes snappier
the mojitos smell mintier
and even jack seems funnier.
her smile is radiant as she listens to a story about a groundhog
leaning her small square hips against the wall
and nodding along with the teller of the tale.
she has no idea that she is the life of the party.

collected

i am the orange lamp in the corner of my cubicle.

i am the half-full water glass with the b.c. comic character on the side, the one that i got from a former boyfriend, the one he got from hardee’s or mcdonald’s back when they used to do that.

i am a bag—many bags—crammed full of receipts, envelopes, a brush, some lip gloss, a wallet or two, a slightly dirty spoon, a whole bunch of keys, a water bottle, sunglasses, a bent postcard, and a slightly molding orange.

i am a pair of turquoise shoes with one white scuff on the left heel.

i am a dirty blue pick-up truck with a frozen passenger side mirror and in need of an oil change.

i am a 37-year-old stuffed animal with matted fur, gone grey and droopy with dirt and slobber and snot and tears.

i am the most comfortable yard sale chair, finally invigorated by a trip to the upholsterer’s shop.

i am a starry baby quilt, made by a very dear friend.

i am a dixie cup full of scuppernong grape hulls, juicy, deflated, and smelling of ferment.

i am a handful of farm dirt that feels like the beginning of time.

a place called driver's seat

the windshield is blurry with rain.

trees are green mosaics and the house looks like a painting of a house

streaky and indistinct.

she pulls her legs up into the seat and leans her head back

uses her pinky finger to wipe the dust from the dashboard and the gear shift.

wipes the dust on her jeans 

checks the rearview mirror 

closes her eyes

the sound of the rain relaxes her and her shoulders drops an inch or so.

she surprises herself by thinking how very safe she feels right now in this minute

and 

spends the next thirty minutes like this

happy

that she doesn't need to be anywhere else.

she considers how simply amazing it is to live in a world where water falls from the sky

and how utterly we take that bizarre and wonderful fact for granted.

this thought and others like it are her company

until her sleeping baby starts to wake up in the backseat

and she hops out into the rain to take the baby inside.

luxury

she totters over to the bench and leans on the glass to take a rest.
glasses adjusted
watch checked
throat cleared
she waits.
she waits better than her sons and her daughter
better than her grandchildren in seattle
better even than the counselor they're sending her to see for her forgetfulness.
she has waited all her life, and it comes naturally to her.
she doesn't fidget
she doesn't sigh
she doesn't pace around reading the bus schedule every sixty seconds to fill the moments.
she is still
enjoying her breathing
noting the angle of the sunlight on the downtown buildings she can see from here
musing about whether to make chocolate pie or banana cake for homecoming at church.
when the bus comes, she will
climb the stairs slowly
make a joke with the driver
and ride all the way to the pretty coffee shop across town.
at the shop, she will order a large latte with almond milk and hazelnut
and she will sink into the plush velvet chair in the thick of things
people watching and sipping.
she giggles to herself at the prospect of this small private luxury
this weekly adventure that's her own favorite secret.
she has earned it.
she waits.

it smells like forever

he walks in the room loud as a thunderstorm but happy, if you can imagine that.  i watch his smile creep up on him and when he laughs, i rush over to be nearby so i can grab up some of that laughing and rub it between my hands.  i make a glowing ball out of it, and put it in my mouth so i can carry it around for a little while.  he puts his arm around me, and it's fuzzy as ever.  i snuggle my face in the crook of his elbow and before i know it, i am off the ground, in the air, a little bit dizzy, a little bit breathless.  he pops the ceiling off the house with his left hand, and i can see the treetops getting closer, getting farther away, getting closer, getting farther away.  the light between the leaves makes my eyes feel funny.  i open my mouth wide to catch the fun in the air, and some of his laughter glow escapes my mouth when i do.  some of my own laughter pops out, too.  just as suddenly as it began, it stops, and i press my face into his soft, old t-shirt to get my bearings back.  i inhale deeply, and i feel safe here where it smells like forever.

a place called bleachers

he squints at the field he squints at his dad he scratches his nose

rubbing the toe of his sneaker at a dried-up wad of gum he wonders

is now the best time to ask for ice cream

or should he wait

until after the next batter

will his dad be more likely to say yes and thrust some dollars at him so that he can concentrate

now

or will he say yes when the team is headed back into the outfield and he’s feeling safe a few runs ahead

in a few minutes

the noise in the ballpark sounds happy to him

and he imagines it as a big purple swirl wooshing up to the sky and overflowing the fences and the walls surrounding the place

he thinks of it splashing all over the cars the people the apartment buildings the bars nearby

he smiles at the vision of all those people purple-y wet with the crowd’s happiness

he scoots over a little bit to give his dad more room with his sloshy beer

and the hot metal burns his legs where his shorts end

he lifts his butt and puts his head down

trying to look underneath the seats

his mouth twitches as he scans for lost foul balls

he pops back up when his dad says, “son?”

nodding a yes at the question, “’bout time to go get a pretzel and some ice cream?”

he thinks about how this is his favorite day so far this summer.

chapstick

she picks the dry skin off her lips and flicks it on the floor
bites her bottom lip with her top teeth
chews the inside of her cheek with her molars
rubs her lips together over and over again
and then she puts on some chapstick
the one that comes in the black tube
without any real flavor to speak of.
she buys them in packs of ten or twelve
and stashes them four or five at a time in her purse
her beside table
her medicine cabinet
her glove compartment
(where they often melt and run all over the operating manual in its plastic sleeve).
she's been known to find them in the refrigerator and in the couch cushions.
once she found a plastic target bag with 33 of them
loose
hidden in the back of the linen closet
behind the extra set of sheets
the ugly ones she never used but kept for linen emergencies
whatever those might be.
don't get me wrong:
we are talking about a powerful woman
in the world.
she negotiates mergers
she picks up the check
she silences board rooms
brilliant
meticulous
in control.
but chapstick
she cannot be without chapstick
chapstick gets the best of her.

punch

in the voice of jenni, a new character:


okay, listen.  
yes:  that guy was a raging asshole the first time i met him.
he got so mad at me his face turned all red and he had to go in the other room and throw stuff around just so he didn't punch me.
and i'm a girl.
and he's not the kinda guy who punches girls.
but he wanted to punch me.
he really did.

but then, y'know, this time when i saw him he was really nice and stuff.
he was telling me all about his grandkids and how crazy in love with them he is and that always just makes me all mushy, y'know, when those really macho dudes start talking about their grandkids.
he doesn't really look old enough to have grandkids, but i guess he is.

anyway, i think you should talk to him.
he's single but he likes kids and he's pretty cute when he smiles and he doesn't punch girls.
even when he's really mad at them.
you need somebody who doesn't punch girls.
it's been a really long time since you've been with somebody like that.