long overdue

I went on a little adventure this weekend. I wanted to go last weekend but I ended up with a four-day headache and also I was so stressed that I spent much of at least one day feeling like I was either going to cry or hyperventilate. it was fun.

















wild horses in fields, wild horses on the shoulder, wild horses in the road (!). a road that turns from city to suburb to pine trees to the mountain (oh, the mountain), then to dry grasses and shrubs, yellow earth, huge blue sky. hills and hills and hills, and rocks, and nothing else. on a bike ride -- finally, a bike ride -- I pass a few lizards and then one beautiful coyote, loping across the road in front of me. at night there is only sky, and with almost nothing lit up nearby you can see thousands upon thousands of stars. and the milky way -- the milky way! I had forgotten it was even possible to see it. a shooting star streaks past and I remember to make a wish. a good one.

waking up and having a cup of coffee, gazing out into the hills, everything quiet, nothing in particular to do except figure out whether to bike or hike or read: I need much, much more of this.

it's funny, although I live just 90 minutes from the pacific ocean, I normally don't feel at all like I live "out west." (by the way, even after eight years, I still find it jarring and weird to hear people say "out east.") so it's really gratifying to drive a couple hours and crest a hill and suddenly realize, hey, this is it! I am in the west for real now. there are tumbleweeds -- that's how you know.

I drove home yesterday feeling very relaxed and fulfilled and good, ready to tackle my life again. but 60 blocks from home or so, I was again sweaty and restless, and suddenly it was as though the mantle descended. lately there's constantly the feeling of being almost literally physically stuck inside my life. I got home and unpacked the car and here it all was again: too much to do, and the dread and anxiety around doing it. I tried to push it aside. I'm still trying.

but seriously, guys. look at this nonsense:

currently

on the question of whether or not the author still lives

yes.

the quiet summer

it's funny, after awhile so much stuff has happened and you think to yourself, how do I even get started? so you just keep "write on the blog" on your to do list every day only it increases in urgency and becomes more strident in tone so it's more like WRITE ON THE BLOG FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

the sad truth

summer: work, endless work, days of waking at 5:45 and getting to work -- the barn, or the opera, or wherever -- by 6:45, then going back and forth between jobs; running errands for one job then making two hours worth of copies for another, then page-turning, etc etc. what can I say, y'all: girl's gotta eat.

I do this thing I call 'robot brain,' where robot brain = turning yourself into a productive machine and turning off the part of your brain that says I don't want to do this or mother of god, I'm tired, or it's so nice out and it's july, why are we inside right now? In order to keep chugging along I had to turn off the part of my brain that said, but this is not the summer I wanted to have, this is not a summer at all and then go back to the photocopier.

an assortment




• I killed some chickens. (not those chickens up there.) well, I didn't actually kill any this time but I did drive down to philomath to help my friend rachel eviscerate some chickens one day. it's such weirdly satisfying work. everybody's strangely cheery and we're throwing chicken guts into buckets for four hours. I still have a bunch of chicken in my freezer. I think I'd do it every time they butchered if only I had every other tuesday off work.



• I successfully survived the softball season and nobody quit and everybody seemed ok with my rosters and lineups and I found big league chew in three flavors. and I chewed it.

• I made ricotta cheese.



• I picked probably close to 30 pounds of raspberries and strawberries from my garden and I ate every pound of that right the heck up.

• I started a tiny side business doing other people's yardwork. I've been joking about it for years but now it's happening. it's perfect.



• I sat in the same airport parking lot and looked at the same small airplane hangar seemingly always.

• I met a bunch of interesting and famous chamber musicians, like phil setzer and nadja salerno-sonnenberg who are all charming and funny and almost every single one of them said, "oh man, poor you! this [picking up people at the airport] must be the worst part of the job," and then I'd reply to every single one of them, "actually it's my favorite part of the job," and that was the truth.



• I got into a car accident. in the work van. which was a rental. yes, it's on its roof. I accidentally ran a red light and I got t-boned by some 18-year-olds (not as appetizing as it sounds) and the top-heavy van went right over and skittered down the hill on its roof. I spent the entire time saying, out loud, 'you're okay, you're okay,' and then the van stopped and I tried to figure out WHAT IS THIS LIQUID THAT'S ALL OVER ME OH GOD and then I realized it was water from my water bottle because I was upside down. some people out on the road immediately started shouting at me to get out of the van because it was going to catch on fire!!! and since I couldn't see them I assumed they knew what they were talking about and I yelled WELL GIVE ME A SECOND I'M UPSIDE DOWN HERE and then I managed to disengage the seat belt, which of course meant I fell on my head, and then I crawled out the shattered driver side window. I stood on the side of the road with the teenagers, all of whom were fine, except that the driver was in complete hysterics. a nice nurse lady came out of nowhere and told me to use my sweater (white) to help stop the bleeding from my palms, which were cut from the glass when I CLIMBED OUT THE DRIVER SIDE WINDOW. I didn't really want to (they weren't that bad) but she seemed like she knew what she was doing and I was a little dazed and she was right, I guess I could buy another sweater.

later I learned that your own spit will, in fact, get your own blood out of clothing. the internet debates this point but I can tell you firsthand that my previously white, then momentarily blood-stained sweater is now again white.

I also learned that when people at work tell me that I'm graceful under pressure they are apparently right. I stood on the side of the road quietly and stared at the van and thought, in this order, "oh my god I'm okay," "oh my god, everyone else is okay," and "oh my god, that is the fucking work van." but I just stood there bleeding into my sweater and wondering why the very nice firemen hadn't offered me a band-aid (?) and as we watched the towing company try multiple times to flip the van over so it could be towed, I cracked a joke and one of the first responders said, "you know, we go to crash sites all the time and I gotta tell you, you are remarkably calm."

so apparently I'm good at being in car accidents.

if you want to know what it's like to roll a car, you should just imagine what you think it would be like to roll a car.

when jennifer came to get me -- and hold on a sec, internet, while I tell you how everybody needs a jennifer in their life who can be called with any sort of crisis and who can be relied upon to come and help you and stand with you with your bleeding hands (and dry mouth, and rapidly increasing shivering) and tell you stories about her stupid car accidents, because they are very precious and rare and I'm grateful for mine -- we stood and watched the car finally get flipped over, and then she dropped me off here and I spat all over my sweater and then I wrote an email to nadja salerno-sonnenberg telling her how to get to her rehearsal in the morning. because I told her I'd do it when I got home.

if you want to know what it's like to work in the arts, that's what it's like.

then I called my boyfriend and told him I was okay and then I hung up and realized how close I came to dying and then I burst into tears.

I'm okay now. in the end I walked away with less bruising than I get in some races. modern automotive safety standards, I salute you.




• I ran another one of those races. it was shorter than the last one but harder, a lot of intense climbing at elevation. my constant race companion, joy, came along and we ran it together, which mostly meant she ran in front of me and tugboated me along. I hadn't run since the middle of june. it approached the outer limit of what I'm capable of with zero training.

but somehow I won my age group. I don't know either. when they called my name as the division winner, I said, "WHAT?" I think maybe I was the only 30-34 year old lady?

on late july and the things that may happen there

I have two weeks where I'm only working my part-time job (along with feeding horses. and doing yardwork), and then I spend a week on the east coast. today is day one of the two weeks. I mostly have spent today catching up on Life Things that have heretofore gone untended.

the remaining days are going to be spent in a brief but passionate summer whirlwind: bike, horse, open road, beach, sunshine, margaritas.

'you're not home, it's probably better'

I am calling to wish you well. I am calling because I want to
change something I said. A year ago you asked me three questions.
I thought you were asking my birthday wishes and answered all
wrong. If you remember (if I know you you’ll pretend you don’t)
I answered:

1) No, I have always been homely.
2) Yes. I believe you have always been too lovely for anyone to bear.
3) Silk. It is not always expensive, and it is impossible to tear.

It’s my birthday again and because I am cleverer now I can answer
you with more nerve. But because I am still me I am pitiless
enough to have your number and call you with this excuse to let
you know I am still alive (I won’t push it by telling you that I am
wonderful).

1) Yes. Thank you.
2) No. I found it a most repulsive photo.
3) Same. Though I don’t think of you, still it’s a near-perfect heat.
And so dear when ruined.

-- brenda shaughnessy

---

though it doesn't begin for another fifteen days, I have it on good authority that this next year of my life is going to be significantly better than the last.

comments from librarians which have recently made my day
"I am just now writing to tell you that we received from Schirmer the set of Galileo that you prepared last year, and it is so wonderful!  Oh my gosh!  I cannot begin to imagine how many weeks of work went into this project!  I appreciate SO MUCH all the work that you did!  So, thank you."
-- from an email from one of the librarians at cincinnati symphony orchestra

"Greetings from Mo Wedow. He just loves you!"
-- from an email from the librarian currently working with our conductor from Rinaldo

"Now I understand why Gary likes you so much."
-- from the same librarian, on the last evening of the conference

minor emergencies: Falstaff edition

I.

orchestra reading 1: our second bassoonist calls in with an emergency and we don't receive the call until just after 9 AM for a 10 AM rehearsal. I have only ever hired one bassoonist other than the two in our orchestra, and that bassoonist lives three hours away. not helpful. the principal gives me two names to call, and then I realize that we also don't have the music. the second bassoonist lives an hour away. I write a frantic 911 post on the MOLA board but the unbelievable irony is that all the librarians who might normally be able to help me are across the river at the conference. in minutes I have an email from a librarian in NYC -- the one we rented the parts from originally -- saying he has masters of all the parts and he's going to scan the bassoon book and email it to me ASAP. I begin calling the subs, pacing back and forth in the lobby of the building, our conductor hovering nearby nervously. the second person I try is jovial and agrees to come in. it is 9:30.

the bassoonist and the music arrive almost simultaneously to their spot in the orchestra at 9:58. the conductor comes over and pats me on the back. "you have tremendous grace under pressure," he says. in truth, I feel a hair's breadth away from bursting into overwhelmed tears.

II.

the baritone singing our Ford takes a wrong step off a set piece in the final room run of the opera, horribly spraining one ankle and tearing a muscle in the opposite leg. he spends the night in the emergency room. he is rendered totally immobile but still wants to sing. there is a great deal of work put into making this possible: ramps built for the stage, dressing room assignments altered, helpers recruited to wheel him back and forth, to help him move around. the whole opera is restaged during tech, which makes everyone twice as exhausted as usual.

but theater is made of people who get things done. we open tomorrow, and you can't tell that there hasn't been a wheelchair on stage all along.

III.

during halftime at the final dress, the principal trumpet -- a very affable chinese man, skinny like a beanpole, who always gives me a hug when he comes in the building -- comes over to talk. his eyes are red and he looks exhausted. he tells me that his wife and young daughter, age 2, are in china visiting family and that his daughter is in the hospital with a high fever, that she has had a few seizures, that he is out of his mind with worry. he says that a pediatrician friend of his has assured him that the seizures are probably normal, and I reassure him of the same thing; my kid brother had them too, as a young child, and though febrile seizures are terrifying, they are usually not a big deal in the long run. but of course there is no reassuring a parent whose child is on the other side of the globe in a hospital, sick and scared.

when I come into work early this morning there is a message from him: his daughter has acute meningitis. he is flying to china, effective immediately. because he is infallibly decent, he calls me and apologizes, which I scold him for. he gives me the names of a few subs, saying in particular, "so and so is the best and could really use the money."

I leave messages for the people I most want to play and then I sit and wait and wait and pace and try to work on parts for next season and mindlessly scroll through the internet. my stomach churns. at a certain point I make more calls. I get in touch with one person, who is completely unavailable but passes off more names. I write a few emails. the concertmaster and I are in nearly constant touch as she tries to get his car home, to get his music from his office, to get all the relevant items to me.

most of the morning is spent either on the phone or waiting for the phone to ring. I call the conductor and both of the other trumpet players and the personnel manager and the concertmaster and my boss. I look musicians up online to figure out who the best options are. falstaff is hard. I call one guy on the recommendation of a person whom I've already called, and the guy sort of takes a gulping breath and says that though he'd like to see the music, he thinks he can do it.

then there is a mad scramble to get the music. the concertmaster can't get out to get the actual part until later in the afternoon, because, understandably, she has her own obligations. I offer to drive down to her (two hours south), pick up the music, drive it another hour south to the sub, and then return to portland. we debate whether this is necessary and she thinks not. I write to the librarian mafia but get no bites. finally, exhausted from pacing the office, exhausted from lack of food (I intended to be at the office until just before lunch and instead am there until 3), I go home, forwarding all my calls to my cell phone. on my way home, the same librarian who helped me with the bassoon part calls. he's on his way home and he'll send me the trumpet part. by 4:30 everything is situated. I nearly fall asleep fully clothed on my bed.

I am still worried sick about the trumpet player.

and now for something completely different:
unusual candy bars -- a review (part 1)

big hunk: like if you combined the worst parts of the charleston chew and the sugar daddy with stale peanuts and then made it twice as big as a normal candy bar.

u-no: first of all, is this pronounced 'uno', like 'number one,' or 'you know'? second of all, this is basically an extremely fancy truffle-style three musketeers. this is the only candy bar I had to eat in two installments.

take 5: I laughed this one off but actually that pretzel really is a game changer.

the best collective nouns
a cloud of bats
a wake of buzzards
a glaring of cats
a peep of chickens
a waddling of ducks
a bloat of hippopotamuses
a cackle of hyenas
a scold of jays
a pandemonium of parrots
a pride of peacocks
a gulp of swallows
an ambush of tigers
a zeal of zebras

this comes up because late one night during the conference, over beers, the question was posed: 'what would a group of orchestra librarians be called?' and for some reason it is driving me fucking NUTS. it is the best question and there's a really perfect answer out there somewhere. and I want to figure out what that is.

fancy pants
today I was at lush buying myself a tub of fancy face wash. (it is worth the money.) while I was there, I got a sample of $90 moisturizer. ninety dollars. nine zero. I just finished putting it on my face. results pending.

MOLA
I am having a lot of trouble making myself sit down and write about last weekend's conference. it was a really special experience and while in many ways it's not difficult to explain why, for some reason it is taxing to say why. I can tell you that it went beautifully, that I survived moderating my panel (in a gala dress), that the metropolitan opera librarian attended my panel and was very kind afterward, that orchestra librarians sure can close down a bar. I met some exceedingly wonderful people. we -- the symphony librarians and I, known collectively as "the Js" (Joy, Julie, Jess) -- did not want anyone to leave. I miss people profusely. the world is big, and our profession is small, and we are very spread out. we help each other out a lot but hardly ever get to work together. we hang out for 3 or 4 days and then part. it's surprisingly hard.

I have to write at length about it for the opera blog so I guess I will have more to say about it then. for now I just want you to imagine what it was like to come back from your best friend's house after a long weekend together when you were a kid. namely: a little lonely.

overheard at the office: conference edition
how did oregon get the pretty librarians?

what ninety dollar moisturizer smells like
tamales

a sunday

in my dream I look for you everywhere but cannot find you. in my dream I say to you, "I don't know how to say goodbye to you," but you aren't there. I am running barefoot in the rain to get to you. I can't go fast enough. you drive by and I know it's the last time I will ever see you; you are doing something insipid like returning a movie and you are not alone. I don't care but even so I can't find you, don't catch you. I stand there, barefoot in the mud, my clothes soaked through, bereft.

in one moment of the dream you are there with me. I know you are going, will soon be gone, and everything inside me is frantic. every time I see anything beautiful, I tell you, I think of you. everything I am made of screams: please don't go. if there is a place farther from me, I beg you do not go.

I wake and am alone, my head pounding, the hair at the nape of my neck damp and hot. there is one extremely loud bird outside. I spent much of yesterday walking around with a guy and his little hound, ellie. I spent the rest of it on my bike. now I am alone in my bed at dawn and for all that matters, it might as well all be the dream. I still don't know how to say goodbye to you. I still think of you whenever I encounter anything beautiful. I would run whatever lengths necessary, barefoot in the rain, everything on me soaked and ruined, if it would bring me to you. this is the only secret about myself I have been keeping. except from you. forgive me. I couldn't help but tell you.

wherever you are in the world, I miss you more than I can say, even in dreams. still, and, I fear, always.

if you go away from writing for long enough you begin to wonder what it is you used to say.

because of my long absence I'm sure you imagine I'll tell you things are dark. wrong! they are much better. modern pharmaceuticals!

a funny side effect of the drugs I am taking for my brain is intense, focused concentration. it's frequently prescribed as an ADD drug. I am pretty sure I don't have ADD but I have definitely never been this undistractable in my life. it's incredible. in a few days I'll drop down to half the dose I've been taking, which will be my actual daily dose. I'm kind of terrified I'll turn into a space case. DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK

another funny side effect is the ringing in my ears. it's faint but consistent. and I don't even care! look at me go.

in the three(ish) weeks since I last hung around this blog, we opened and closed tosca. it went fine. I never saw it because I was in the supertext booth. it was not my best performance librarian-wise or supertext-wise (seriously, I have never stepped in so many entrances as I did in this production. sorry, singers). but that's okay. I entered it feeling as bad as I've felt in my life, so it's a miracle that anybody even got the right music, never mind that I managed to sort out all the electronic and backstage instruments. I mean, I didn't cry once in rehearsal, so let's just call it a success and move on.

I moved on to the next opera, handel's rinaldo. we're cobbling together the 1711 and 1731 versions and so it's a librarian nightmare, a pile of transpositions and inserts, a score that's cut and pasted together, a constant series of changes, plus the confusion of baroque instruments, none of which I'm terribly familiar with.








(henry the desk vacuum, a christmas present from my mom)

I get almost daily emails from the conductor that say, like, "hey, when you rewrite the trumpet parts for oboe, can you do me a favor and insert these 5 bars from the oboe part in the middle here, and then these 14 bars here, and then you can jump back to the trumpet part." but in the same breath he says things like "thank you, jessica, for this meticulous and beautiful score," so everything is okay.

and hey! I am on ADD medication. there were days when I almost literally had to be torn from my work. I worked so much and so hard on the parts for these last two weeks that my face started to hurt from looking at the music. my FACE was sore. THE HELL.

they're done, and I sent them out yesterday, and since I worked 74 hours last week I took today and tomorrow as my weekend. it's the first time I've had two uninterrupted days off in at least a month. yesterday on my way home from the office, I went and picked up my own giant vat of hot & sour soup, came home, changed into my adult one-piece camo print footed pajamas (YES), turned on trashy crime dramas, and ate the entire container of soup in one go. then I fell asleep for two hours, woke up, puttered around for an hour or so, and went to bed at 10. what's not to like?

the most exciting thing on the agenda tomorrow is my massage, long overdue, where I'm hoping to utterly horrify the massage therapist with my bone-hard, strangely lumpy left leg. you gotta have goals.

currently

nature's air freshener

I have a christmas tree in the passenger seat of my car. I put it in there to drive it to the boy scouts or whoever takes old trees when you live in the city, only then I couldn't find where their collection place was and there was this tree in my car, and it was all dried up but it smelled good and there was nothing to do with it anyway but let it stay there. every time I'm walking to my car I start hysterically laughing at the idea that I have a christmas tree in the passenger seat. I kind of like it. the other day one of my coworkers and I went to happy hour and he had to sit in the back like we were driving miss daisy. when he asked for an explanation -- I think what he actually said is what is wrong with you????!!! -- I said, "well, I put the tree in the car a week and a half ago--" and then I couldn't finish the sentence because I suddenly realized the absurdity of it and I got laughing so hard I couldn't talk. I guess I'll have to pitch it into the woods behind the barn.

things that are good

• on new years day I'm running down the sidewalk, a few blocks from my house, and ahead a white suburban has its reverse lights on. I slow down to see if the driver sees me and he does, and waves me on. I turbo past and he calls "happy new year!" out the window. "you too!" I reply. it's simple, but good.

• at the barn, I finally meet the new barn manager, who moved in sometime in early december, bringing with him his seven beautiful horses -- rocky mountain horses mostly, plus a tennessee walker and a kentucky mountain horse. all of them are in good weight, mannerly when fed, well-groomed. the barn manager's name is jim; he's probably in his mid-sixties, and has the easy air of a person who's spent his whole life with horses. we shake hands and he asks me which horse is mine, and then he admires my rubber boots, which are plaid cowboy-style boots I'm wearing only because the soles of my normal ones have totally worn through. "hold my shoulder so I can see the bottom," he says, and then he picks up my foot just like you'd pick up a horse hoof and checks out my shoes. "hardly been worn," he declares, as he backs up a step. he appraises me. "look at you! you look good. those boots, and you've got a wrangler butt."

I have never heard the term 'wrangler butt' but I know instantly what he means, and I will take it.

• we have a quick & dirty lady date sunday, because I can't get out of orchestra rehearsal until just before 10 PM. j & I watch downton and polish off a bottle of white wine, which we drink ostensibly for its germ-killing qualities.

• tonight at the barn, I hang out with a one-day-old colt, who's the spitting image of his mama. after initial shyness, he comes and sniffs my hand, but runs away when I try to rub his neck.

• in the span of just a few days, I receive two care packages from two of my finest lady friends and both of them make me choke up in profound gratitude, because somehow my life is full of extraordinary people who are willing to come hold my hand and lead me out of my darkest places.

rachel's package is an utter novelty, mailed in a bottle, the stamps hand-canceled. inside there's candy and coffee and a few wonderful little trinkets, a pair of fuzzy socks, the sweetest letter. I drink the coffee a few days later, in the car on my way to mt. hood, and it makes me really, really happy.

katie's package is a sizable box that appears at my door, stuffed under my doormat by the mailman, who understands my neighborhood. in it is everything she's picked up for me in the last four years, none of which she's ever gotten around to sending. each thing is labeled with a sticky note. on the tiny "Pimp Your Pumpkin" decorating kit she writes, happy halloween 2010!. she sends a book along, saying, I read this a few years ago and loved it so much I had to send it to you immediately.
I laugh for ten minutes straight.

inside is a card that says

the sex & the city movie was on tv last night and I watched some of it. there's a scene where carrie is in bed and too depressed to get up. samantha brings her breakfast and carrie doesn't want to eat. samantha feeds carrie while she sits up a little. while I was watching it, I thought THAT is what jess and I would do for each other. I could have used it in the fall, and you could use it now. just know that in spirit, I am sitting at your bedside and feeding you breakfast. maybe even bacon.

I think maybe this is why I'm single. these people are what boys are up against. frankly, they don't stand a chance.

fucking with your chemical components

last thursday I shuffled into the east interstate kaiser permanente campus in a hooded sweatshirt and a wrinkled pair of jeans, my hair unwashed, to talk to my doctor about how sometimes I'm so sad it takes me an hour and a half to get out of bed. (also, I had to get a pap smear. neither one of these two things is something you want to do first thing in the morning before work). she was, as always, very efficient and kind and fifteen minutes later I walked out with a wellbutrin prescription, which was filled at the pharmacy counter by an alarmingly good-looking pharmacist. why is it when you don't wash your hair there is always a good-looking unmarried pharmacist, seriously.

I think most of us have this idea that our essential nature is something greater than the sum of the chemicals in our brains. we can understand logically that what for lack of a better word produces us is the firing of neurons and the mixing of chemicals and the strange mysteries of the body. I think most of us, though, in our secret heart of hearts, believe that our essential personhood is a thing that transcends all of that somehow.

taking a pill that fucks with your dopamine receptors in order to revert you back into a functional human is a reminder that your essential personhood is largely out of your hands.

the (surprising) sisterhood of the brokenhearted

although the sting of it has more or less subsided, I still think very often of last year's relationship that almost was. if the right sequence of songs come through my headphones I still shed a tear or two. the residual sadness I feel is probably a weight I will bear forever: a tiny knot made of regret, loss, and disappointment. in short, I frequently wonder after and miss my friend. I think (and accept) that maybe I always will.

but sometimes I think that what growth looks like is this: I occasionally think of his girlfriend fiancée as a kind of sister, rather than as a rival. I mean, if human beings were logical and if the world made sense, she and I would have banded together against the thing which so deeply wounded us both; we'd have stood tall, a pair of mighty ladies, and said, "well, we both got fucked," and we'd have dusted our hands off and given each other a consoling hug and gotten the hell out of dodge. sometimes in my quiet desolation I have imagined that rather than hating me, she wonders after me instead. after all, this shit happened to both of us. in slowly trudging down the path of healing, I sometimes imagine giving her a hug. I'm so sorry, I think to myself. we both got so hurt, and what for? I wonder about the two of us girls, playing tug of war over somebody who set all three of us up to be broken. and now they are to be married. it will always be a puzzle to me.

life is full of contradictions. he will always be my short-lived but nevertheless dear old friend, a kindred spirit, a person who woke me up. no matter what time passes or the hurts I have sustained, the truth is that even now, I would be a safe haven for him in a storm. that is -- dopamine receptors be damned -- my essential personhood. but sometimes I am grown up enough to wish her the best in that life they have, despite everything, chosen to have together. when I look back and wonder what it all means, the tiny part of me that's healed hopes that whatever he learned from me is something good she gets to hold on to. the sisterhood is precious to me. I wish I had never broken it.

a recent middle of the night meal
a bowl of trader joe's o's
two pieces of deli cheddar cheese
marshmallows

some tasks I have run for our giovanni
hot and sour soup delivery
hot and sour soup delivery
drive to and from spray tan
hot and sour soup delivery

things I fantasize about when I consider taking the whole week off at thanksgiving
staying in bed
watching korean tv
pajamas
hot chocolate
sleep
knitting
no human contact

what I will probably actually be doing the week of thanksgiving
running projections for a disney show with the symphony and trying to look professional while I sing along under my breath

a decent metaphor for my heart
two and a half years ago I was knocked down as I was trying to maneuver several hundred pounds of hay. on my right thigh I have a scar from being forcefully slammed into the lip of the little truck I was driving. it's a visible dent, the width of maybe two fingers. it's fully healed, just dented. if I push on it, it produces a very dull ache.

I believe this is how this thing with g will always be: a thing that will heal with time but will somehow, also, always hurt.

recent google searches
how to build a balloon arch
balloon arch tape
red chuck taylors
fraggle rock theme song
piriformis spasm
bob woodruff hairpiece
peter dinklage

single word said recently to the opera timpanist which subsequently made him crack up
frankenberry

top 5 favorite candies, as requested by the timpanist
cadbury cream eggs
laffy taffy (strawberry or cherry only, none of that banana-flavored shit)
charleston chew
valomilk
gummi sour apple rings

bottom 5, as requested by no one
peeps
candy corn
jelly beans
red vines
necco wafers

backstage noises I have been asked to make in the past seven years, onomotopoeia style
boom
rumble
ding
crank
bang bang bang

the general consensus
still sad

a probably true thing
I'm going to have to write my way out of this.

high hopes

It wasn’t that they were so
high, exactly,
they were more
low-down,
close-to-the-ground,
I could rub them
the way you touch a cat
that rubs against your ankles
even if he isn’t yours.

So yes I feel lonely without them.
Now that I know the truth,
that I only dreamed someone liked me,
the cat has curled up in a bed of leaves
against the house and I still have to do
everything I had to do before
without a secret hum
inside.

-- naomi shihab nye

bravely forward, I said. I meant it, though the sentiment comes in flashes of motivation. in between, there are long slow blank spaces. I crawl between moments of conviction. the rain pours.

I really, really miss my friend.

7

seven years ago today, my mom called me at sunrise to tell me that my stepdad had died overnight, in the hospice wing of the hospital, his brain hopelessly speckled with inoperable tumors. I can still remember his ridiculous, raucous laugh; the way we always teased him about his hair thinning; the grease always on his hands and under his nails from all the cars he worked on during the day; the sound of his voice as it carried from the full mechanic's garage we'd built next to the house, mingled with the sounds of the lift and the air compressor; his exuberant smile; his ridiculously short shorts; the smell of motor oil on his coat, cold from being outside.

I'll never forget the way I drove through the back roads of my hometown in early fall, a beautiful day, all the colors changing, and thought, 'I recognize there is beauty here, but it is not for me.'

nor will I ever forget the days following the funeral, absurdly nice outside, when one afternoon my mom, my siblings, and I drove to the hanover playground and played the longest and most intense game of freeze tag of my life. we played for over an hour, running like crazy through that most amazing of playgrounds, laughing and squealing. they were eight years old. afterwards we sat on the bank of the susquehanna river, in the sun. all of that impossibly incongruous, but real.

seven years. it gets easier, but also, it doesn't. we miss you, stevie.