Winter Gothic

The pond was frozen over and the wind had blown renegade snowflakes under the feeble plastic covering the car's cracked windshield. There used to be two cars parked in front of the house on the corner-- two matching Subarus, Mschef and Mschef2. Now Mschef2 was all that was left, deserted, snowdrifts piled along its running boards all winter long, for at least the third running winter in years. Overall, it was the sort of sad winter scene a depressed landscape artist would paint while contemplating if he really needed his left ear; if the world really needs to be heard in surround sound. Even the Canadian geese who hadn't quite made the winter cut-off flying south who were now squatting by the pond looked like they were considering just ending it before having to go through another Vermont winter, and we all know how little comparable intelligence a goose possesses. There's not a gently teasing idiot remark about it for nothing.

I used to drive by about 6 times a week during high school on the way to and from the barn, when it was occupied, in better times, and I remember thinking it looked like the sort of place I would want to know the kind of people who would get matching "Mschef" vanity plates and live in an old clapboard house on a wide corner of a country road and go swimming in their pond in the backyard. They were probably artists, I thought, the two Mschefs-- projects got started, and never seemed to get finished, like the sliding doors on the north side of the house that, while installed, still looked raw around the seams and beams, like someone had found another project to worry at before they could finish fixing the trim. Ms. Mschef was probably a chef or caterer, the sort of a woman who always has a "To Do" list and is methodical yet nonchalant about getting it all done; Mr. Mschef seemed liked he'd be a house painter by day, and an abstract painter by night. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed handy around a house, yet scattered.

The house and car had been left vacant in the middle of those scattered renovations, the impedance unknown-- a divorce; an affair; a death; an unplanned-for birth, perhaps. There are, after all, some things that just can't be explained to a spouse. Why your newborn son looks more like the cashier behind the local general store and why you've been running more "last-minute late night errands" to get supplies for the next day's "intimate rehearsal lunch for 12" is one of them. Now, left all exposed wood and pink insulation tufting out to be mauled at by small mammals and birds to feather their own nests, it resembles so much nothing better than a big stuffed Valentine's Day heart, ripped apart, trailing entrails and the stuff two people thought would be enough to keep them warm. The only sign of life left on the property were those two Canadian geese out by the pond, and even they looked like they wouldn't be sticking around for much longer, if they could help it. After tragedy, sometimes, the stench just remains.

XOXO

Announcement!

Just found out that a revised copy of "Plate Tectonic Theory" is going to be published in Willard & Maple literary magazine!

I'm going to be printed in something other than the internet and newsprint!

XOXO

Kitchen Bitches: Get Around (The World) At Duino! (Duende)

Duino! (Duende)

10 North Winooski Ave.,

Burlington, VT

Carissa: “Cheddar cheese and kimchi inside; dude, it’s so good,” said the guy from the next table who was wearing the same wool Gatsby hat that my grandfather and father used to get from Conte of Florence for golfing. Make no mistake, ¡Duino! (Duende) is not for the faint-of-hipster heart.

Alli: There’s a wide, open doorway connecting ¡Duino! (Duende) to Radio Bean, allowing all sorts of things to waft through the spaces between: the scent of coffee and beer melding with garlic and spice, chatter, music, and yes, hipsters.

More palatable things come through that doorway, though. The whole night, we were serenaded by two lovely female fiddlers with misty sunlight, smoky-breakfast-tea voices. They played a set of reels and ballads alike, obviously very talented with a bow, that set the soundtrack for our meal. There’s definitely an upside to being connected to Radio Bean. You get all the live music, great food, and entertainment (yuppie-observing), but far enough removed that you actually have a two square inch buffer around your person at all times. And you get damn good food.

Carissa: The exposed kitchen gives you a great opportunity to watch your food being prepared, as well as to scope out the prep chefs. As I said to Alli, “If the extremely pretty person preparing our food is a man, I totally dibs him.”

Alli: The kitchen is impressive in its tiny size, proving that the chef is good at what he does. If he can work in such a small space, imagine what he could do with real counter-space. It’s almost bar-like. And being able to watch the chef slicing and sautéing and plating…it’s a total tease. I caught him lifting the cast iron pan from the flame, use his hand to waft the steam toward his nose, and breathe deeply. He handled the food as if it demanded respect and adoration in equal parts. It was beautiful (Carissa’s convinced that’s because he is beautiful).

Carissa: ¡Duino! (Duende)’s faded sort of charm with chandeliers above the high round tables and stools and a burgundy theme is reminiscent of old-time speakeasy vibes, complete with the Nickel Creek-esque melodies that were going on that night through—literally—the hole in the wall. After fighting through the menu like Saint George with the dragon and making your final choices, you actually get to eat. But the menu might be what’s possibly the money-maker for ¡Duino! like running books and illegal card games used to be for those speakeasies of old—loaded with inventive, scrumptious street foods from around the world, none more expensive than $12, and with good portion sizes—and by god, I mean real plate sizes— ¡Duino! (Duende) has carved out a late-night or quick-bite niche with a sit-down restaurant floor for itself in Burlington’s dining scene, something not easily accomplished.

Going into fall and crisp, cold nights, their Cider Snap is the hot alcoholic drink you want to wrap your hands around to warm them from the nip in the air outside. A concoction of hot rum and mulled cider with a circle of orange suspended in the clear stein, the rum hits you first, then the mulling spices, with a final citrus zing from the orange. It’s got automatic machinegun speed and accuracy going through the flavors, one right after the other.

Alli: For me, the Cider Snap was warm from the inside out. It was softer than an AK-47; you get a hug from the rum, a kiss from the spiced cider, and a wink from the thick orange slice wedged in your mug. But yes, in that order—always in that order.

My drink, Reed’s Ginger Brew, was a thick, viscous soda low on carbonation and huge on taste. It’s made the traditionally, with real ginger and spices and honey. It’s not as “crisp” and fizzy as Canada Dry. It’s sweet and pungent with just a little spice from the ginger, flavors that settle on your tongue in noticeably different parts. (Off the record, it would be perfect with a little bit of Jameson.)

Carissa: Elote is the Mexican street food’s answer to corn on the cob. Grilled with buttery “mojo” aioli and cheeky Mexican spices so zingy they make the corners of your mouth tingle—from which I could pick out cinnamon and chili powder—the corn itself was sweet and juicy. My one complaint of the evening was that unlike my first ear of corn, my second was not properly de-silked enough.

Alli: The elote was smoky and rustic. The parsley sprinkled generously over the two ears gives it a solid green kick to go with the medley of deep spices. The only problem with serving corn on the cob at a restaurant like this is that it is not at all dignified to pick the skins of kernels out of your teeth for the remainder of the meal. Especially if you’re sitting in the half of ¡Duino! (Duende) arranged near the large windows, where the entirety of North Winooski and Pearl can see you trying to floss with your fingers.

The Duende salad is a little sweet, a little tangy, and a little bitter with a variety of textures all in one bite. Atop the fresh, hearty green bed are shredded carrots, crunchy sunflower seeds, and crispy beet shavings. The honey-hops dressing is tangy and creamy, probably made with greek yogurt, sweetened with that honey, and deepens with the nuttiness of the sunflower seeds. It’s wonderful.

Carissa: (Duende)’s take on Quebecois poutine with cheddar cheese instead of curds and a mix of two distinctly different sweet potato and russet fries is genius, fresh, and invigorating. The brown gravy that it’s smothered in is so homey with hints of onion and sage, and the fries themselves were just as crunchy and salty that they’re stiff competition with Bluebird Tavern’s for tastiest fries in Burlington. Fo’ real. I think I liked the sweet potato fries in the gravy the most—it had that diabolical flavor combination of sweet and salty going on that’s a killer for most women. Together with the Cider Snap, you’ve got the perfect heavy warm-you-from-the-inside-out and sticks-to-your-bones (and your ass,) fall and winter meal.

Alli: Although I was concerned when the plate of poutine, typically thick fries smothered in gravy and hunks of cheese curd, came out as two-toned shoestring fries with shredded cheddar, I have to concede. It was fantastic. The russet fries were a little too salty with the gravy and the cheese, but the sweetness of the sweet potato fries cut that saltiness really well. And the best part was that because it’s a lighter poutine, it doesn’t settle in your stomach like a couple of mud bricks.

“The Maduros are extra good today,” our waitress bubbled when she set my plate down before me. “The plantains we got this morning were perfect.” True story. The sweet plantains for this dish are lightly pan-fried and dusted in cinnamon and nutmeg. The dense starchiness is cut by the thin, light, cream-and-mint dipping sauce pooling in a little saucer on the side. Carissa preferred the maduros without the mint-cream-concoction, and I can understand why: comfort levels. This dish is perfect for apple pie cravings. It’s starchy, almost doughy, enough to satisfy a pie crust craving, and the sweet plantains are spiced just right to fill in for the apple filling. But don’t forget, this dish isn’t dessert. Sprinkled over the plantain slices are charred onion slivers, adding that salty, smoky level to the sweet. Between those and the infused cream sauce, you get a slightly uncomfortable jolt; the variations aren’t quite rebellious enough to really pull away from that tie with mom’s apple pie. However, those onion slivers and that mint dipping sauce is exactly what brings this dish up to par—it’s taking what you know and love and adding a new twist. As soon as you accept that, you’re in the hands of a subtle genius.

Carissa: I got spoiled on plantains when my best friend’s Jamaican dad cooked them for us in

London. Duino’s maduros are the best plantains I’ve had since, and I’ve tried making them in the chaos of my own kitchen—always ending up drying them out or over-frying them. These squished through their fried crusts like too much succulent plantain flesh is inside to be contained.

By the end of our meal, I was so satisfied that I could have

fallen into a dead sleep on my bar stool. You get a sense of comfort here from all over the world, both in the food and the preparation of it, that in turn makes you feel all is right in your little corner table of the world. Coming from the girl who doesn’t date, you could take me here for dinner, totally fine. ¡Duino! (Duende) is romantic in a faded, chintzy way, and it’s cheap. You’re not going to break anyone’s wallet here. Maybe that’s why it’s so popular.

Alli: It’s a total paradox, having a street-food restaurant, but it works. Street food is simple, quick, comforting, and cheap. And, more often than not, some of the best food there is because of it. It’s why people go to New York for soft pretzels, Fenway for franks, Spain for churros, Belgium for cones of frites. It’s low key, which makes it easy to love. Which, I agree, makes it perfect for a date. But seriously, it’s about the food.

As an end note, the menu at ¡Duino! (Duende) seems to change frequently. Check in often to keep up with and make your way down the menu and live music from Radio Bean. All in all, it’s a good Repeat Restaurant. And just to reiterate, this would be a good restaurant to take your, ahem, favorite Kitchen Bitches.

XOXO

So Sweet, So Tender

I have a slight obsession with the concept of poets (usually male,) reading poems about their girlfriends, significant others, or wives to audiences in which their girlfriends, significant others, or wives are a part of. So many times we imagine a female poet being the one who writes about her personal life and the romantic, personal persons in it (guilty as charged), but there's something so sweet and incredibly tender and endearing about how when a man reads a poem about his girlfriend/S.O/wife, he never looks at her, never acknowledges her, never puts her on the spot, and yet, you can see the understanding pass silently between the two.

These two poems come from two different poetry readings I sat in on. The first one comes from a reading given by Galway Kinnell at the Burlington Book Festival, and the second was a reading by one of my professors at Champlain College, Warren Baker. Both were poems about their wives when they were younger, and I'll admit to watching their wives like hawks after I realized who the poems being read were about. Like seasoned poker players, neither woman had any sort of tell that they felt any sort of way about it.

I think I would dance on my seat.

The Pulitzer and His Prize

She sits like any other member of the audience,

Periodically fidgeting to get more comfortable in the folding theater seat,

As his voice slides over her,

Touching everyone else as well,

And she shares him equally.

Unlike other audience members,

She never looks at her watch.

Later,

As they walk through the dark,

Arm-in-arm,

She leans into him and sighs.

"I've always loved

When you read the one

About me."

Literary Couples

She sits,

Front row,

As he reads

Aloud

About watching her sleep.

So intimate,

So sweet;

What it's like

For all these strangers

To hear how he feels about her,

I always wonder about.

She sits,

Front row,

Silently,

Not moving,

And I can't help but wonder,

With longing

If I will ever sit,

Front row,

Silently,

Maybe moving,

But just a little bit,

And listen to a man

Speak about what it's like

To watch me sleep.

XOXO

(The Only Thing To) Fear Is (Fear Itself)

Fear is

A thief in the night,

A phone ringing at 2 AM,

A hushed voice from the other room.

Fear is

Seeing your on-again, off-again boyfriend's car

Parked in front of his on-again, off-again other woman's house

And having to think of them, twisted together, for over a year now.

Fear is

Watching your aging father

Do the old-man shuffle of caution,

Prematurely.

Fear is

Hearing the blue-collar voices of men

Below your window in the chill of an October morning,

And wondering if they're turning off your heat.

Fear is

Lying awake at night

Thinking about the heat, your father, and the other woman

And finding you can still sleep.

XOXO

The Morning After

Your underwear

Are always the first thing to go missing,

Hiding under the bed,

Or tossed into some far corner.

He usually will get up first,

To make coffee, or go to the bathroom,

That is, if you aren't ashamed enough

To have snuck out during the early dawn light

First.

You will have roughly 15 minutes

To regain some semblance of the well-pressed self-control

You had the night before,

Sans brush, and sans mirror.

His roommates will be moving noisily around,

With no clue or no care

That you might still be there.

They talk about eggs as you try to find all your rings,

Loose, like how you're feeling about your morals.

You hold your forehead,

Sneaking glances at him in Ray Bans and a Sox hat,

From in between your fingers

As he drives you home.

You wonder if he'll call again.

XOXO

Inexplicable

The heat

And sweet drinks

Have made us crazy.

You call me back,

And I return.

Infinite bliss,

But at what price?

I slap you more than 3 times,

And you decide you like it.

We've decided

To re-intangle,

See if

What used to be

Cosmic

Still is

Inexplicable.

XOXO

Assumption Eats Away At You Like Consumption.

I am an idiot.

Sometimes.

And assuming really does make an ass,

But mostly out of me.

So much energy spent,

Misplaced.

I am so glad

I have not spent this past week

Kicking her car every time I walk by.

(Twice a day.)

I take it back.

Not all.

But most.

XOXO

With Rings On

She

Fell asleep with her rings on,

Fell asleep with her guard down,

Fell asleep with her voice gone.

She

Never told you what you needed her to say,

Never said things would be better this way,

Never promised what she couldn't keep.

She

Dreamed of Christmas morning,

Dreamed she drank the ocean through,

Dreamed the dog came back to stay;

...She dreamed of you.

XOXO

Plate Tectonic Theory

I look up, because I've now known you for long enough that I can feel when you're expecting something from me and know when I should look up.

During the moment I catch your original glance, I watch it change into a wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights thing, and, feeling bad about this nearly voyeuristic glimpse into your psyche, I let my eyes keep going, skittering past yours after the initial catch and blink of surprise, now drifting by each other like two continental plates enacting plate tectonic theory in motion-- somewhere, because of this, a volcano will erupt, or an earthquake will go off.

An unfamiliar prickle begins at the base of my spine; a feeling I've almost forgotten, like the names of relatives you never see anymore. I realize, belatedly, a day later, after the fact, and after the fact that the alcohol I'd been swimming through has now dissolved into my bloodstream like so many other things, to be forgiven and forgotten and generally not thought much of ever again-- it's because you haven't looked at me that way in a Long Time. Nearly, I might even say, nearly a year.

I'd almost forgotten it, but there it was-- I looked to you like something shiny and new.

XOXO

Come Full-Circle

The first night, you made the White Russians with too much vodka. I drank it anyway, and didn't tell you until later, when I was already too drunk to drive home. Thank god you asked me to stay.

The last night, you made me a White Russian, with knock-off Kahlua, and again, too much vodka. I drank it in a rush non-conducive to walking home all the way across town, and was glad when you called me back.

The first night, we slept naked. It was winter-time and cold-- you pressed up against me. I didn't mind too much, other than the Band-Aid-adhesive feeling of peeling my skin off of your thighs when I went to roll over, where your hairs clung to me with sweat.

The last night, we slept naked. One of the last nights of summer, far too hot to touch, I looked at your alien body as it glowed translucently in the dark beside me, all legs and dark patches of hair, and thought about how weird you looked; how weird it was to be looking at you naked, vulnerable, and with your mouth open, snoring.

It was his birthday. We were both drunk beyond judgement. And Lord knows the soft-spot a mile wide for each other is located between both of our legs. It seemed like The Right Thing To Do. A tip of the hat to a shared history and the fact that human beings are remarkably fallible and Have Needs. An old song and dance, revisited. A waltz nearly a year archaic.

The next morning, I woke up, oddly elated to realize that other than a headache that pounded from the bridge of my nose between my eyes (a bull's eye to point where thinking had NOT gone on), I didn't feel any different.

Strange when you've already cared so much that you can't possibly care any more, every last drop of feeling wrung out of you like a sponge in an emotional vice-grip. Not enough emotional range left in you to switch your settings. Oxytocin orgasms over. Spent.

XOXO

Something So Small

The kitten

Has to make up to me

Before he sleeps.

I want to know

What he knows,

And you still don't.

XOXO

Fall Slides In

Our floors creak in the weather changes,

Like the bones of an old, protesting woman

Who has seen too much

And lived enough

To have filled up every page of her diaries,

And sigh at the first sign of fall.

XOXO

It's Only Smoke And Ashes, Babe.

There are some mornings when I wake up, and it's as if no time has passed at all.

Still fuzzy

Still dazed

Still noncommittal

To anything

But the next breath,

Still hesitant even on that option.

I wonder sometimes if what I'm doing now will fuck up the rest of my life for me.

The hard part if figuring out if I really want it to, or not.

I have no idea

How I got

Half these bruises.

I have no idea

And

At the same time,

All too good of an idea

How I got

Here.

XOXO

A Literary Playground

Last night,

My parents took me out,

And bought me beer.

Tonight,

I keep quiet,

And hold poetry near.

Life cannot be lived at Mach 6;

When it's going too fast,

You'd be better off dead.

Like Scheherazade, I've told 1,001 tales.

The trick is not in the telling,

But in knowing which ones you've already said.

A limerick will pass the time,

But it can never hold the attention,

Of a fully-weighted rhyme.

Then, the short story.

Next the novel.

Electronic words have not yet found their place,

Just like me.

In 9 months, newly embarking

On the next chapter.

The epilogue to college.

The preamble to life.

What came first,

The writer, or the page?

Script, syllable, or phrase?

Twist the words,

And shout.

XOXO

Nicholai la Citta, aged 3 months.

The kitten sits
In the chair
At the head of the table,
For all in the world
Like an expectant child.
It’s fitting,
As I say to him
At least every week,
“It’s you and me,
Kid,
For the next
Fifteen
To
Eighteen
Years of your life.”
He burbles back happily,
As if he understands,
And in that moment,
Listening absentmindedly to his chatter,
I catch a glimpse of what I would be like
As a mother,
If the unlikely were to ever occur:
Over-protective,
Impatient,
And devastatingly in love.

XOXO

Disappointment Comes With the Territory

If I were to ask you which hand I smoke with,

Left or Right,
I have a feeling that we would both be disappointed.
You,

For getting it wrong,
And me,

For realizing you don’t know me

As much as I wish you did.

XOXO

The Last Time

The last time,
Our eyes caught

In the early morning haze,
And locked,
A gray-blue and a bright green,
As you touched me,
Deliberate.
For an instant,
One drawing in of both our breaths,
One moment of stillness,
One last time you saw me,

For real.

The spell broken,
As I looked down
And closed mine,
Out of shame.

XOXO

Firenze Sempre

Those were
(Quelli erano)
The golden days.
(I giorni d'oro.)
The mornings where sunlight
(Il mattino dove la luce solare)
Looked like dust filtering through stagnant air
(Considerata come la polvere che filtra attraverso l'aria stagnante)
And
(E)
The heavy weight of jewels.
(Il peso pesante di gioielli.)
The evenings on the coast when warm breezes
(Le serate sulla costa quando brezze termiche)
Carried
(Eseguita)
The clean smell of
(L'odore di pulito)
Cacti
(Cacti)
And
(E)
Sea salt
(Sale marino)
On them.
(Su di essi.)
Monuments
(Monumenti)
Rose like memories in the piazzas,
(Crescere come ricordi nelle piazze,)
And
(E)
Buildings
(Edifici)
Loomed as tangible as the passing of time around them.
(Profilò tangibili come il passare del tempo intorno a loro.)
A back alley in Firenze
(Un vicolo in Firenze)
--Only the Italian names for places—
(-- Solo i nomi italiani per i posti--)
Via dello Studio.
(Via dello Studio.)
I am late on my way to a friend’s apartment,
(Sono in ritardo sul mio modo di appartamento di una amica,)
But walk
(Ma a piedi)
Slowly,
(Lentamente,)
Rewarded for my patience when,
(Premiato per la mia pazienza quando,)
Above me,
(Sopra di me,)
Piano
(Pianoforte)
And
(E)
A woman singing opera
(Una donna di canto lirico)
Erupt from open windows.
(Scoppiare dalle finestre aperte.)
I stop
(Mi fermo)
On the cobblestones
(Sul selciato)
And listen,
(E ascolta,)
Knowing this is a moment I will remember fondly
(Sapere questo è un momento mi ricorderò con affetto)
For the rest of my life.
(Per il resto della mia vita.)
Nothing has changed here
(Nulla è cambiato qui)
Since 1482.
(Dal 1482.)
I hope nothing changes
(Spero che non cambia nulla)
Upon my return—
(Al mio ritorno--)
A 20 year old shadow of me,
(A venti anni ombra vecchio di me,)
Left wandering the streets here,
(Sinistra per le strade qui,)

Forever,

(Sempre,)

With
(Con)
Part of my heart
(Parte del mio cuore.)

XOXO

Hiatus

You said "hiatus" like there was something to tie me to the same place, the same space, the same point in time. Like you can tell a dog "stay." Like there was something worth staying for or coming back to.

I wanted to look around and see the same strange universe you live in so I would know what exactly you were thinking. I wanted to tell you, "I may love you, but I don't love you enough to atrophy." I wanted to believe that you were bipolar, as it seemed to be the only explanation for the abrupt Harvey Dent two-face turn.

Instead, as time passes, so do the reasons, the possibility of explanations, and even the desire to linger. In some places, a "hiatus" is nice-- Maui, the Virgin Islands, Fiji. For others, a break only means that things have now been broken. No traction, no ICU and no splints and bones.

XOXO

Perfect Strangers

I don't know what made me look up just then, so suddenly, like emotional whiplash. Maybe it's just because I'm used to having you around-- you still show up on my radar, a bright blip.

But instead of where you would have come over before, instead, you looked away.

Just like we were perfect strangers.

You're just another handsome guy in a Red Sox cap. I'm just another girl pretentiously reading in the corner. If we were perfect strangers, I may try to catch your eye. I may smile. I may run a hand through my hair so you could better see my face. But after our combined history, I know better.

Just like how, as an imperfect non-stranger, I know your Cassiopeia constellation of moles, and how you smell, the way you take your coffee, and the unmistakable sound of your first signs of smoker's cough. And you know too much about me.

I can't pretend we're perfect strangers, so I pretend to ignore you as you walk slowly by, instead.

XOXO

Tiny Wakes

Dock. Cattails. Dog. House on the hill. Barn. Field. Dock. Cattails. Dog. House on the hill. Barn. Field. Dock.

As my feet make tiny wakes in the still pond water, algae floating in random spots like the ubiquitous Snickers-bars-in-public-pools of urban city kid's youth, I find myself thinking, very hazily, that this is pretty much the life. That right now, right here, this moment in time, spinning in tight circles like a buoyant top with my wet thighs sticking to the black inner-tube, digesting a peppermint stick sundae like the same ones I've been getting since 7th grade, and the gentle splashing sounds of Nora, 10 feet away from me in the pond, rollicking like a young otter in, over, and around her tube, both of us higher than a pair of kites-- that this, this is it. I've stood in the Colosseum; I've been in Carnivale; I've watched freighters and cruise ships sail across the infinite blackness of the night's horizon from the beach as stars fell from the sky overhead. But none of this still compares to being home in Vermont. I would not pass up this feeling of bubbly joy and dizziness as I watch dock, cattails, dog, house on the hill, barn, and field flash before me for another pair of heels; not now, and not ever.

These were the moments I missed the most; the small, the mundane, and the entirely trivial. I missed morning jogs underneath trees with leaves so green and bark so dark from the rain. I missed the noisy buzz and crush of Church Street, and the humidity of packed house parties. I missed the tricky shift from first to second gear; the heavy weight of Saph's head on my chest and damp hemlines from where she breathed onto me. I missed the mountains, and the water, and the storms. My entire 4 months in Florence, we only had one thunderstorm. I missed them just as much as I missed blood-red sunsets over the lake, small psychotic cats, familiar hugs and faces, and buttermilk ranch dressing on Wings Over's honey barbecue boneless wings. Like I said, it was the little things that I wished for. In Italy, I got out of the habit of great big, grand wishes, because I knew upon returning, they would probably remain just that-- wishes, and not reality.

But here, this lounge in a pond-- this was more delicious than any wish I could have come up with, not in my most wild and romantic moment. It beat being spirited away to Bobcat. It beat being met at Logan. It even nearly beat that first American kiss back.

Those 6 things-- dock, cattails, dog, house on the hill, barn, field-- and the feeling of the water lapping at my heels in a way that seemed far too velvet and far to solid to really be water, ushered me back in to my life more surely than anything since the 18th, and I knew it then, that this was not a dream. This was the life that I had left, and the one I had returned to. The simplicity was beautiful, and staggering.

A storm rolled in at around 4:30 in the morning. I woke up to watch it, and went back to sleep with the sound of thunder still crashing in my ears. Some wishes are perfectly harmless and easily answered, after all.

XOXO

Small Packages, a Work In Progress.

Totally subject to changes at any time, massive edits, further writing, and general construction.

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Small Packages

He had been working there for 13 years, and he still hadn't opened a single package. Bumble & MacAlistar International Shipping, despite one of it's unfortunate founding partner's last names, and maybe because of it, prided itself on both their faithful, reliable employees and fast service, and Marty was no exception.

Marty Strong (Martin, on his blue and white nametag,) had started working for B-Mac, as it was fondly referred to among the people who shipped and recieved packages through them, and the NASDAQ, upon graduating from high school. Now 31 years old, with a wife, a dog named Bear, and a house that's monthly mortage was $900, he was starting to feel a little restless with life. No college education-- Pop hadn't believed in sending his only son away to somewhere where there was something called a "quad" and smoking pot and playing the guitar in a shirt you dyed yourself seemed like the extracurricular activity of the time. 'A good, blue-collar man is worth his weight in gold,' he used to tell Marty. 'There ain't nothing you can't do with your hands that some fella can do with his big brain.' Marty's mother had drunk herself into an early grave, so she had no say in the matter. If she still had been around, maybe she would have tried talking Marty into taking a job in the men's wear department of the local Sears and Roebuck. But in any case, she wasn't, and so Marty found himself applying as a "Handler" at Bumble & MacAlistar, and there he still was.

It was the sort of job that allowed you to let your mind endlessly wander, and Marty liked that. After his first six months, Marty got used to the lift, shift, carry routine, and now, muscle memory controlled him on the job, years of repetition and well-honed biceps doing most of the work for him. Despite his Pop's words of wisdom, Marty actually had a lot going on inside of his brain. There was his wife, Kate, to consider. They had been married for six years, and Marty was still constantly mystified by her. Just the other day, he had come home after a late shift to find her still sitting up, waiting for him, in their living room. 'Marty,' she asked him calmly, 'what if we never get out of here?'

'But we just bought the house four years ago,' he said to her. 'We're going to be paying the mortgage for the next 30 years!'

'Not out of here, Marty-- out of this rut we're in.' His Kate had ideas, she did. She was two years younger than he was, and therefore, two years even more reckless. At 29, she still felt young. She saw her girlfriends moving to the cities-- New York, Boston, Philly-- and she was starting to feel like maybe teaching seven year olds how to write in cursive was a dying lot in life, wheezing its last death-rattles. Marty, in his daily routine of lift, shift, and carry, was a creature of comfort. The thought that his wife-- his lovely, exhuberant, frustrated wife-- was starting to get antsy made Marty get antsy, too. She was trying to shake things up for them. First there were the open issues of Cosmopolitan that she left lying open to "101 Ways To Spice Up Your Sex Life!" and "8 Hidden Spots That'll Drive You BOTH Wild!" That he could deal with fine, but just the other day, she had brought home kits of finger-paint, five of them, and tried to convince Marty to join her in re-decorating the bare living room wall behind the sofa. He had refused, out of princepal-- what sort of person fingerpaints in their own living room?-- but now, delicate little handprints and arching finger swoops in red, green, blue, violet, orange, and yellow seemed to creep over his shoulder as he watched the Tonight Show. You could just barely see the little bump around the base of the second finger from the left of the left-handed prints, but Marty knew it was there, and Marty knew it was the band of the very adaquate wedding ring that his very adaquate yet very lively wife wore, and it made him sigh. There was even a pawprint by the baseboard from where Kate had dipped Bear's front right paw in fingerpaint and then pressed it to the wall. Privately, he thought that being surrounded by children all day in her second grade class didn't help her any.

Between that and the mortage (another thing Marty could spend endless hours contimplating how he was ever going to pay it back on a Handler's salary-- Kate's elementary school teacher's salary went nearly exclusively to paying for the groceries, gas, and her inexplicable shoe collection; how many pairs of high heels does one woman need, after all?) Marty could amuse himself for hours. He was a simple man, while still not being what society would consider a "simple" man. He had very few desires in life-- a few beers after work with his buddies; to please his wife and one day be able to read her mind so he would be able to stop having to guess at why she was mad at him and what she wasn't telling him; to pay the mortgage on time, and maybe, just maybe to have enough cash left over at the end of the month to buy a new set of golf clubs. (This was a new desire he'd been thinking of for the last three months, mulling it over more and more frequently as the weather got warmer and warmer and the opening day of the local golf course got closer and closer.)

---

That's it for now. I haven't written fiction in, oh...a quarter of my life, so any feedback, comments, suggestions and edits are appreciated.

XOXO

Things That People Never Tell You

If feels likes sharks slipping past in the night. The music marks you as guilty, but never has Jaws looked this appealing before.

Cat people thrive on rejection. Maybe, it's the whole feeling given off of "I'm-not-quite-attainable-and-some-of-it-is-partially-at-times-when-you-have-no-fucking-clue-where-I-am-and-find-yourself-fervently-hoping-that-I'm-not-throwing-up-in-your-shoes-to-spite-you-because-you're-not-quite-sure-if-I-really-like-you-or-if-I'm-just-using-you-because-without-your-bed-I'd-be-homeless" way that some women seem to have, too.

Dear Clinique: I am writing to you to report a fallacy in your marketing of your Lash Power Mascara Long Wearing Ultra Waterproof Formula. When my now ex-boyfriend of 2 years broke up with me for another woman with a perm, that shit ran like the Nile.

"I don't tell fairy tales much."

"Please? Just this once? Mommy always tells me fairy tales before I go to bed."

"I didn't birth you, so I don't think those rules apply to me."

"C'mon, just this once. Please?"

"Did you hear the one about the princess and the frog?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing is original these days. Fine. There was this--"

"NO! You have to start with, 'once upon a time'..."

"FINE. ONCE UPON A TIME there was this princess who had really shitty taste in men. I mean, like, forget shining armor, these dudes were lucky if they had a frickin' pair of clean boxers. There were no white horses, no roses, no jewelry, no surprise spontaneous serenading and choreographed dancing, no boom boxes under windows...nothing that every single movie or story themed at girls that you will watch or hear for the next 25 years of your life have. Because that is not real life. That is a fairy tale. And in fairy tales, Prince Charming does not give you herpes. Because as our princess found out, it's really hard to sleep with a lot of douches and not contract something that makes you itch where you just shouldn't. And while he lives happily ever after, spreading his gen-hep-2 to the rest of the female population stunned enough to have sex with him, she did not."

"...you don't ever need to tell me a fairy tale again."

"I warned you. And so you know, Valtrex can only do so much, and stay away from artists. They're like, the power-hungry magicians of the not-fairy-tale world. You'll never be able to find that pair of underwear again. Under their bed is a black hole, and a genie. And your three orgasms were his three wishes, tricking you into feeding, clothing, and blowing that sad little excuse for a Jackson Pollock."

"Goodnight! GOODNIGHT!"

"Goodnight, sweetie. Sleep tight."

XOXO

Of Aliens, Achilles' Heels, And Joints.

My thumbs still crack as much as they used to, tightening and cramping with about as much regularity as you exhibit. In the cold night air, first five wet, clicking snaps go off, starting with one abrupt sound, like a tree branch breaking underfoot in the middle of woods devoid of birds or any other small, noisy creature--then, more hesitantly, with the rasp of skin on skin as the appendages are pulled back manually, the other four fingers go. Crack, snap, click, pop. Then the other five on the other hand, in descending order, an arpeggio of joint, fluid, and bone.

There are people who will tell you that cracking your knuckles like this will swell them up like soft flesh balloons in your old age, penitence for years of self-abusement. People also tell you that you'll go blind from masturbating too much, and that you cannot lick your elbow. Well, I can, so I'll continue on being That Person who does it as a nervous reflex, a self-calming ritual as soothing as sucking your thumb, yet still publicly acceptable at nearly 21. Plus, what if they crack themselves? What if they elect, on their own biological and anatomical accord, to freeze up and crack? I have never had to force my thumbs to release like the trigger of a gun. I have never had to wrestle with them in a pantomime of a singular thumb-war and get them to give and function again. Instead, they always do it on their own-- a tightening, followed by a reflexive bending, at which point the spine of the thumbs give way like the spine of last year's biggest best-seller-- a fictional account of one passively-aggressive, neurotic man's triumph over the impending doom of intergalactic space invaders come to rid the world of it's inhabitants and bring back all the Fluff to their planet of Doom and Fluff-less peanut butter, which has since been opted for a movie, like War of the Worlds but with less Tom Cruise-- as the heel of your foot pushes down on it where it lies, spread-eagle on your bedroom floor, now broken, eternally open to those two pages detailing the struggle between the main character's desire to turn his back on his world and wallow in his own self pity, or to climb through the alien spaceship's air duct and kick some E.T ass, and you look down at the face of your former lover on the back cover's flap, trapped somewhere yet still smiling thinly under your Achilles and you think, "Well, if that isn't fitting?" and then you smile, and mash down on it just a little bit harder, because, you know, you're alone in the privacy of your own house and bedroom, and no one else is around to see your quiet-yet-clicking moment of vindictive triumph about something you should have rightly been over nearly six months ago, after they traded in a huge second book deal and a Lamborghini for your relationship.

After all, life can be stranger than fiction.

---

The thing that I love about writing fiction is that it never ends up ANYWHERE near where I thought it would when I started writing it.

And who knew War of the Worlds stayed with me so intensely, bad acting and all these years later?

XOXO

And P.S-- Yes, I can really lick my elbow.

Hell Is A Place Called Not Knowing

It always feels like someone is leaving. Mostly, because someone usually is. It's like trying to have a relationship with an opening and closing door-- most of what you get is the breath of cold air right after the feeling of someone who has departed. You see the words "Enter" and "Exit," but they both start with "E" like "Ecstasy" and "Epiphany" and "Enabler" and "Excommunicate," and so you are confused and stay put, dancing from one foot to the other, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Apparently, the grass is always greener on the other side of that door, or so they say, so while some graze contentedly-- or, at least, pretending to be contented, like a woman exiting Barney's with an arm full of shopper's remorse and a decimated credit line-- that must mean that others are still waiting on the other side of the door, tapping their feet and checking their watches, waiting for the people who Just Can't Say No to come back.

D.A.R.E seemingly did too good of a job in some rural elementary schools-- at least, with the rigid refusing part, if not with the saying no to two of life's most fundamental and key elements to any sort of personal happiness. Because, after all, what is a good story without copious amounts of alcohol and a little weed? Boring, that's what.

And so, there's this little waiting room like something straight out of Purgatory for the people who are too sure that absolutely nothing is wrong to sit in and cool their heels and wait for an explanation to come back through that door; any sort of explanation will do, as long as it's not half-assed and holds more of the truth then most people are willing to give. It's a waiting room like that of an oral surgeon's, or a podiatrist, some office where lots of poking and prodding goes on and you know, you just KNOW you're going to be in a lot of pain, full of a self-righteous silence that barely covers the underlying tension of "Oh god, what have I done?" and "Oh god, what have YOU done?" And you're left staring at two words, two maddeningly heavy words weighted with implications that are far too large for you, you in your hurried, semi-frantic, holier-than-thou martyr's state to really even begin to understand...

So will it be "Enter," or "Exit"? Do you want off this ride, or are you going to wait one more turn of the merry-go-round before you finally decide to scrap it all and jump off? Or, are you ready to finally throw all your baggage (not, as was said with such fervent feminine finality, "it's not just baggage-- it's like excess luggage with the overweight fees and carrying charges,") down onto the floor of that place everyone is looking for called Home and announce, "Honey, I'm Home"?

Because this is not an endless revolving door. Someone who lets someone else who's not supposed to really be there in too many times is called a Push-over. And the next thing you know, Security is breathing down the back of your neck, saying, "Did YOU let him in? Did you really think this would end well, you poor stupid shit?"

And all you can say in response is, "You always go and I just wanted you to stay."

Ok. So I'll bite. What did I do?

XOXO