A (Brief) Goodbye Tale

Not Good: Pushing not one, but two cars in the snow.

As in, "My Jetta doesn't have winter tires. Could you guys give me a push, including you, girl in the small cute skirt?"

Good: Smoking and driving at the same time.

As in, "Hey, do you have a lighter?"

Better: Smoking a bowl and driving at the same time.

As in, "Hey, do you have a lighter? And don't bogart the piece, man. This is an all-inclusive burn ride."

Best: Ending up at the shooting range.

As in, "Here are you ear plugs. Here's the .38. Load your bullets. Aim at the clays. Fire when you're ready."

Possibly the best goodbye afternoon I have ever had the pleasure of either having, or even hearing of. More to come later. Right now, I am too wound up and hungry to expand in any sort of sensical fashion.

XOXO

Beekeeper

In black and white newsprint, there are two photos of you. One is a photo from your graduation day, in the requisite robe and big smile, face still chubby, barely out of boyhood, without the sharp angles I have come to know. In the other, you are obscured by a beekeeper's baggy outfit, face hidden under the net mask, but it's you all the same. You are surrounded by a swarm of bees, like they are coming to your honey. I only pause to wonder about it for a moment.

Beside the photos run short quotes about the kind of person you were, from family, friends, professors; people other than me. I start to get indignant. No one ever asked me who you were. No one ever asked my opinion on how life would go on without you. I could have summed you up in under 20 words, all of them genuine, gut-wrenching, and deeply insightful. The perfect words; nothing more, and nothing less. Instead, they asked other women, other students, other confidants. One is from Germany. I don't know how I remember that.

As I put the paper down, my chest suddenly clenches in a pain that feels like an invisible hand is peeling half of my heart away. I squirm, and actually feel an arm cross my chest to protect it. I look at myself, standing next to the table, as still as your grave, and realize I'm actually looking at myself. My whole unmoving, unsquirming body, from soles of shoes to crown of head. The feeling doesn't go away. I twist once more, and find myself facing yellow bedsheets and the wooden side of my nightstand, half-naked and alone. No shoes. No church. And no obituary.

I sit bolt-upright, out of breath and shell-shocked, one hand still protecting that fragile, ripping heart, reach for my glasses and slide them onto my face, and look at the clock. It is 9:58 AM, and I am wondering if you are still alive.

XOXO

[Photo credit www.laurenshaw.com.]

I Still Can't Say "Lata, Playa."

This past October, one of my really dear friends died suddenly. I can trace the Maturation of Carissa back to almost that exact date. He was a big dude in almost every sense, and not having him there made a lot of us all grow up and fill the holes that he left in having to take care of ourselves and each other.

He had my back more than anyone else ever has. And I only say this over my best girl friends, because I am pretty sure that he would have killed someone if he thought he really had to. He certainly was right up and in the face of the drunk dude at Higher Ground until I got an apology for being doused by his beer. He was there to protect and serve when the Ex Who Won't Take No For An Answer came back to Burlington.

He was the sort of guy who would give you both his shirt AND his ill hoodie right off of his back if you asked for it. I don't think I ever heard him tell me "no." I could call him at any hour of the day or night and tell him what was up, and he'd be right on it. More than anything else I miss about him lately, I miss that feeling of knowing that there was someone who can just say, "Hey, homegirl, it's aight. You're a dime, and you're gonna get through this," and tuck me under his chin. And it made it "aight."

We went through a lot together. I'd never been more honest with anyone than I was with him. He was just one of those people who you just wanted to tell everything to. We'd sit out on the stoop and smoke and shoot the shit, and those are probably some of my favorite memories. I learned more about other people and myself when I was with him then I ever did alone. It stands to reason that sometimes, the people that you least expect it from are the ones that are going to provide you with exactly what you need, even if you never knew you needed it before.

The other day, I was feeling pretty low. I went into my little Drawer of Magic and was promptly stumped. There was lots more in there then I remembered, and I mean, I'm not just being forgetful here. I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I pulled it all out, looked at it, exceedingly puzzled, and then just felt it. There he was, in with his wares, still providing for me. Basically, still saying, "Keep it easy, and this one's on me. Still." I sat there on my bedroom floor and gave in to the least-graceful mix of laughing and crying at the same time ever executed.

I miss him terribly, every day.

But it's good to know his sense of generous humor has still stuck around.

So this one's on me. One love, MJP. And I'll never say "lata, playa."
XOXO

Helen Keller

You told me I never told you how I felt.
It's true--
-----------I didn't.
I kept my feelings tight,
Under
Lock
-----------&
----------------------Key,
And when I felt like I'd lose control of them
And let them go flying
-----------Out
Into that great unknown void between
My lips
-----------And
----------------------Your ears and mind,
I wrapped myself tighter in them,
Like how I wrapped myself up in your sheet one night so tight,
I was like Burrito Girl,
And struggled in a
Silent,
-----------Full-blown
----------------------Panic
About being trapped for 5 minutes,
At 5 AM,
While you slept beside me,
Completely unaware
What was happening right beside you.
I was too used to forced independence
To even think or consider waking you up,
And asking you to help me out of
-----------All of it.
Completely unaware.
I neglected both myself
-----------&
----------------------You.
Like a dumb mute,
I kept things from you.
For fear of losing myself,
I lost you
-----------In silence.
I never laid a "thank you" next to your ear-drum,
For the things that meant
So much
-----------To me,
Like your vocabulary
And the fact we could discuss literature
Like semi-civilized human beings,
The 2 AM phone calls
When you knew I'd still be awake,
Even the
Bad puns,
Though
It was one
Constant
-----------Repeating
----------------------Refrain
In my mind.
I never told you, "I like being with you,"
Though
I never had the heart to squirm away from you
In the middle of the night,
When you were far too warm,
Even for me,
Because I would have rather been
-----------Tucked
Next to you and too warm,
Than beside anyone else and comfortable.
(Plus,
-----------You always followed me if I moved.)
I never said "I miss you,"
Though at times,
It felt like that feeling you get
When you're leaving for a trip,
And,
-----------As you walk out the front door,
You get that vague
-----------Yet specific
Feeling that you're forgetting something,
But you can't put your finger on it;
Until you've driven just far enough
That you can't justify turning back,
-----------When it hits you like a falling piano,
And all you can do is sit there,
And say,
"Well,
-----------Damn."
That is how I missed you.
And while I was missing you,
I was
Completely unaware.
I told you,
When the words finally came,
-----------Too late,
That the only person you can control
Is yourself.
Lies.
You can't even control yourself,
Some of the time,
As I proved,
By what I was too
Hesitant
-----------&
----------------------Too afraid
To say,
And as you proved to me.
I never asked for more because
-----------It was enough.
I thought I had learned,
That fear of rocking the boat,
Never got the crew anywhere.
Now I see,
Lessons remain to be learned.

XOXO

Essays, Wrote The Wise Man

If I have nothing original to give you of my own, I will find you something interesting and of note to read.

This is the website of one of my professors, and his essay on the durian fruit is hilarious. If nothing else today, you need to read this, and laugh.

Like Tim Brookes, I thoroughly appreciate a good essay. Essays, essays, essays...I have a long and involved relationship with essays, (possibly my only long and involved relationship ever). When I was a freshmen in high school, my English teacher passed out a prompt and those iconoclastic blue booklets to our class so, like every other high school student in grades 9-12 in the state of Vermont, we could participate in the annual Vermont Honors Competition for Excellence in Writing. (Long title; 5 paragraph essay.)

To my utter surprise, my essay (I don't remember the prompt,) was selected as the best out of the 150 some-odd from my freshmen class. On to Round Two writing against the freshmen winners of the other schools in my county, and a new prompt, this one on what I would chose to do if I knew it was my last day alive. (My response: nothing different, except I'd sleep in and finally be daring enough to speak up to a few people I felt I couldn't be for the fear of having to live with the words I'd said. As still now, I have always had a problem with actually saying the words I feel and think.) Again, utter shock when I was announced the county winner.

This brought me onto State Finals at UVM. I brought my friends Wheaton and Carson along for moral support, and was (again, as always) 15 minutes late to the actual timed writing period. This was the prompt for the competing essay: "Our country prides itself on progress made in such fields as technology, medicine, education, etc. In a thoughtful, well-developed essay, discuss how progress, although highly valued in our society, could be viewed as being paradoxical." I wrote something about how although technology has made our lives "easier," one could argue that it has taken away the personal element to things such as communication, which undermines the definition of "progress." I think I even used the word "juxtaposition" somewhere in that essay. It would make sense. It's been my favorite word since my intimidating, inspiring, iconic 9th grade play-writing teacher used it one day in class.

The prompt for all grades was a bit less cerebral: "Henry Adams wrote, 'A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.' Reflect upon Adams’ words. Then, in a thoughtful, well-developed essay, discuss the impact a teacher (the individual does not have to be in the teaching profession) made on you." I thought about my teachers; my trainer; my parents; my more enlightened friends. And then I wrote about myself and my writer's voice, and though I may not know where it came from, or how, that voice, more than all the class assignments, bad teenage poetry, fan-fictions, and notes passed in class, is what encourages me to write, and to continue writing. I have tried scouring the internet and files to find the copy of the essay for you, but, alas, somewhere in the past (jeeezus) seven years, it has disappeared. Probably, a good thing. It was not my favorite essay ever written. But yet, when they announced my name as the statewide freshmen year winner and ushered me up to collect my $2,000 check, that was the essay they asked me to read. So, like anyone just given a large amount of money and then asked to do something, I complied, and was amazed when I watched stranger's mothers tear up. I was even more amazed when I was called to the school office a week later to conduct a phone interview with a reporter from the local paper.

"Have you always written?" the reporter asked me.

"Um...yeah, I guess so." (I was in such shock I am afraid I was not the eloquent. Then again, I've always been far more eloquent via written rather than spoken word.)

"What do you think you want to do with your writing? Any plans on making it a profession?"

"I want to be a journalist." The words were out of my mouth before I'd even thought about them. I was just as surprised as the reporter was. This was the first time I'd even considered making writing (something I loved,) into a career (something to feed myself and pay the bills). Before, I had every intention on attending veterinary school, nevermind the fact I am so severely needle-phobic I get strapped down to the chair at my doctor's. All it took was four five-paragraph essays that a few other people believed in enough to think they were "winners" to change the entire course of my life.

I have always loved shared knowledge-- if you find something you think I might enjoy or find novel, please, and by all means, leave it for me as a comment. I always love finding, discovering, or reading new things.

XOXO

"Abandon Truth; Settle For Good Fantasy."

It is not often I demand things from people.

But, I am demanding you to go here, explore, and form an opinion. As one author writes, "I came. I saw. I conceded."

These are the Sixers. I think they're revolutionary and liberating.

Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure

Six-Word Memoirs on Love & Heartbreak

Shocked at what people can accomplish with limited space, time, and word count? Do you love or hate the concise format? Are you a minimalist who revels in the diminutive? If so, you'd love me.

XOXO

The Secret Lies Inbetween The Lines

I would not call myself a poet. Instead, I am she of the glib social commentary on men and women and the wry personal remarks on societal views. More "Cosmo" than "The New Yorker." Carrie Bradshaw to, say, Anais Nin. A gossip columnist; a shoe mongerer; an advice-giver. No great shakes to change the literary world. The level just ain't there yet, but I have time.

I am not discounting what I do well. Far from the case. I am living a dream that many never get the chance to even encounter: at a (relatively) young age, I have first found my niche, then found my voice, then found some way to get it out there. I am read, which is the most powerful thing that can happen for a writer, even more so then getting paid. There is validation in reader's comments; not in dollars and cents. As I am finding out, "what I do" pays far better, with more regularity, and has a much larger target audience who is actually interested in reading than what it is I do here on "Jux". However, this doesn't mean I should give up on "Jux," just days old. This doesn't mean I should quit my moonlighting job. This doesn't mean that what I do here has any less value than what I do on SATCG. If anything, if SATCG is my fun and my bread and butter, "Jux" is my release. "Jux" is where I get to showcase the human me: the me that struggles. The me sans bravado. The me who is still cautious of reading in public. The me who won't bare all. The me I am behind closed doors when I can shut my SATCG persona off. It's a me you may never see. Or maybe you do. One side isn't "better" than the other-- you must have two halves to make a whole, after all. Mine just happen to be deeply disparate.

But as is the case with anything you don't know much about or can't claim to be yourself, poetry fascinates me.

I love poetry because you'll never know what it's really about, even if you think you do. It's like looking at shadows and trying to guess form-- just a suggestion, buried and hidden under simile, metaphor, line breaks, and verse.

By all accounts, a secret, that only the writer knows.

Whitman and Yeats and Shakespeare and William Blake and Frost and Maya Angelou and Ntozake Shange and Ginsberg and Basho and Rumi. Rumi!

Rumi!
"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
How blind that was.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absentminded.
Someone sober will worry about things go badly.

Rule-keepers run on foot along the surface.
Lovers move like lightning and wind.
No contest."

Rumi who wrote,
"When the ocean comes to you as a lover,
Marry, at once, quickly,
For God's sake!

Don't postpone it!
Existence has no better gift.

No amount of searching
Will find this.

A perfect falcon, for no reason,
Has landed on your shoulder,
And become yours."

Rumi who said, "All the learning in books stays put, on the shelf. Poetry, the dear-- words and images of song, comes down over me like mountain water."

Now, there was a man who understood.

Who do you think understands it that way?

XOXO