talking to phil

i went in looking for a cherry coke and came out with a story about phil.

waiting at the counter of this hole in the wall convenience store two blocks from work (that i never even noticed before). waiting to pay for my soda the man behind the counter finishes his phone call.

i admire his features. older gentleman. ragged big swollen hands. kind eyes. trickster grin. wink.

he hangs up the phone and takes my dollar. i nod good-day and head out the door, but on the threshold he stops me:

do you ever get off the phone with someone and just feel better?

mmm hmm.

my friend phil is like that, i just got off the phone with him and i feel like a hundred dollars. i wish i had that affect on people.

i take a tug from my bottle, sidle up to the bar, and say, well sir, i'm sure you do have that affect on some people.

no, no. not like phil. phil always leaves you better than he found you. he was a teacher and was just telling me about a girl he had 20 years ago in his class. she was in a wheelchair, you know? and it was time for outdoor school. all the schools go and the kids were all excited about it. meanwhile the principal and other teachers are preparing to tell little suzy, she's the one in the wheelchair, they were making other arrangements for her that week. and phil, phil! he say, by god that girl is going to outdoor school! she is part of this class and she will stay part of this class.

so suzy goes to outdoor school. phil pushes her wheelchair on all the trails. and wouldn't you know it, it had just rained so they were all muddy. . .

and he had to push her through the muck?!? i exclaim

he nods. he didn't have the heart to tell her, or anyone, (and here the old man unfurls his big, rough hands) that his hands were blistered and bleeding from pushing her through all that mud.

i have chills. that gave me chills! i say.

his kind old eyes are red and tearing up now and his voice shakes.

but that's not even the best part. phil just ran into that girl, 20 years later, and you know what she is doing now?

nnnooooo waaaay. . .(excitement building!!)

she is a forest. ranger. i kid you not. tells phil that that trip gave her such a love for the outdoors and changed her life. his huge fist taps the counter three times: that's. my. phil. see what i mean?

phil always leaves you better than he found you.

friday night

GRUNT 1, originally uploaded by Vanitas fayre.

the end of the week can be so exhausting.

fridays i am ready to be happy. ready to be free and fun and to leave the work week behind. ready to search for oaks park, octoberfest. beer and leiderhosen, sauerkraut and accordion.

instead i pick. pick a fight, pick apart a lost invitation. make myself believe i have lost all my friends (even as i am doing this i can't stop, can't explain why)

shake it off and ride the rollercoaster, so small and creaky, so perfect. scream! and scream some more. screaming is acceptable here, is joyous here, is funtastic here. ride it again! laughing and screaming.

the ride home is content, is quiet. home is even more quiet and i pace in the driveway, feel the empty returning. feel the house stifling. i can't name it.

until the tears come. after such a long absence. with such tenacity my whole body shakes. releasing of other people's trauma. work drama. let go of my own failed relationships. mourn my own.

failed.

then get up. again. to finish another day.

little falls

two dreams in a week inside the corner yellow house with the awning. with the winding sidewalk and the rain barrel and the giant creaking swing. with the basketball hoop on the garage for h-o-r-s-e. inside the garage is a refrigerator, and inside of the refrigerator there is a cup of shredded newspaper and inside of that is a family of night-crawlers, squirming away from the light.

i am in the basement. i am going into the basement, clutching the railing because the way it opens up on both sides makes me dizzy. see the freezer with its key and smile. who needs to lock a freezer? see the grey concrete floor. i know this house, but it is different. i know even before i can see at eye level that the juke box is no longer there. someone else lives here now but the freezer is still here. the piano is still here. is still out of tune. is still missing the ivory from several of the keys. the chalkboard is also here. a chair. a rug. some old old toys. a bookshelf and musty magazines.

i am more interested in the other corner, in the pantry. will i find canned tomatoes? pickles? potatoes? is that musty air still waiting to escape? i don't make it that far.

around the post are hung dozens of birds. so many birds dancing on strings! i pick up the bluest one, touch the thread from the serger, open the petals of wings all sewn by hand. my grandmother's work! so detailed, so careful. or is it my work? her working through me. close my eyes and feel them sting,

feel my throat closing.

a tiny river down my left cheek.

down my right cheek.

collect in the reservoir of my clavicle.

why am i here? or rather, why

do i have to wake up?

the wildest of these

in the darkness

wings thwacking,

shared panic

r u s h

of wind

and leaves.

in the darkness

a sliver

a stallion

charging past me

i freeze.

my own mane swirling

and falling. stillness

returning

eyes widen. too black to see

(bats rushing)

(tiger pacing)

(fish jumping)

my own heart:

bleating

two boys. one ring. a story

ben and luke at two and a half: twins. brothers. ring-bearers. ben buries his face in mama's dress, her little penguin. luke stands at the ready. shakes his little man arms back and forth, totters up and down in his tiny man shoes, heel toe. heel toe. waits for the music to start, looks at the flowers spilling, points at the floor points at the dresses. says "mama pretty." the music starts, the flower girl pushes aside her bangs steps forward one foot, stops. steps forward one more foot, stops. just like she practiced. luke remembers his cue, looks forward and up. rubs meaty palms together. big eyes, bigger smile. ben tugs at mama's dress, says "i go now" finds his brother's hand, walks a crooked line.

they join the rest of the gentlemen. together

peppermint and sand

clenched and tight she trods:

flashlight and helmet and steeltoedboots.

this is the way she goes spelunking.

stalactites, yes. she expected this. air so moist so thick it clings to

the hand. bent outstretched arm in front of face (a shield).

too soon the cavern narrows. bending, bending, bending

her bones like wings retracting

smaller into the space she haunches

crunches boots in sand and sand and sand and sand

smaller into the ball of herself. to her seed and her apple

core. to dig and to slip and to scream, voiceless.

spelunker's pickaxe hefted she waits

squeezing eyelids tight she wishes invis-ability

smell of peppermint and salt and thorns

the cracking of

ice, when it retreats and stretches and breaks from the shores of a lake, makes a sound like an elephant stuck in a tuba. like an alien star ship warping from sky to sky. like a gigantic rubberband guitar, strung up between many hundreds of old growth redwood trees, monkeys plucking a tune. it makes a sound like an echo of lightning. not thunder, mind you, but what lightning itself would sound like.

ice was moaning, but on that night all i could hear was the blood in my ears and the sound of my own voice:

'perhaps you could just step a bit closer in. i am having trouble hearing you.' a plea.

instead she steps out further. the ice cracks and she falls into the lake, shards of cold icerocks up to her knees.

'OKAY!' i yell. 'I WILL JUST YELL LOUDER. TELL ME WHAT STIRS IN THAT HEAD OF YOURS! I AM LISTENING!'

a story on ice. an ice story.

my breath a cloud; her breath a cloud. dissolving before they can clasp. keep talking to close up the gap. the moon so close, the night so still, the sky aching with its heavy satchel of stars. i pick them all for you while i listen. i put them on your ceiling, in your basement bedroom. your nest. your cave, black and more black (and now the stars). i want you to come in to see them, all hung up in this pattern i made for you. i want you to feel the pangs of that warm water on frozen toes. i want you to feel. i want you to. i want.

the next week i come to your basement. i put up more stars. and more. i can never give you enough. and now, years later all those stars have faded. i have forgotten this night sky, this basement, this lake and this winter. i wonder about you.

i wonder how you would tell our ice story.