I wish I could start this with my face disappears into the Fountain of Four Seasons,
but it's the Fountain of Four Rivers, and my face has nowhere to go.
It's 1 o'clock in Rome and I'm sunburnt. I'm gelato.
Somewhere behind the Nile lies my reflection, eying the fake Prada bags
and Ray Ban sunglasses. I turn that way--towards Danube, touching the coat of arms
I don't believe in. And that way--Rio de la Plata showing the abilities of America, riches
no one really sees. Somehow, I'm facing Ganges, navigating the water myself
if the sun shines at the right angle. I track only one obelisk and a couple
of missing thumbs, half expecting to see myself swimming in one of the puddles.
I can't get close enough to touch, two Indian men selling scarves stop me, try to wager
a guess on how low they won't go. I see Bernini laughing at me, waving
at me to leave his statue here, untouched by the other. But when I blink, turn
to walk away, it's just an older Italian couple and a child, laughing at a bird.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Memory 2 Week 8
A few years into college, I stopped going home as much. At 19, 20, I became too engrossed in a campus ministry retreat than hearing my mother cry herself to sleep at night, even when she thought we wouldn't know. I don't remember the exact day, or month, that I stopped wanting to go home, but I just remember being out to dinner one night with my sister-- we enjoyed sushi with coworkers on certain weekends--and she looked at me, asked if I wanted to ride around for a little while.
My sister's not one for talking. When we'd go out to dinner with my father and stepmother, she left the talking to me, as I could talk to anyone, anything. She's better at confrontation. At brooding. At knowing exactly what to say at the exact moment to say it. So, in order to not bother her with the same funny stories about whatever class I was taking at the time, ones I had told her three times that night out of awkwardness, I offered, "we should go buy a CD from Target. One that we've never heard of."
Ten minutes later, after two right turns and a stop light that took too long, we parked next to some banged up Chevy on the Entertainment side of Target. Somewhere between Childish Gambino and Eminem sat this band I had never heard of: Depeche Mode. The English major in me stopped working as I asked "who's Di-petch-eee Mode?" My sister stared at me, the laughed so hard I almost saw pee dribble down her jeans.
We debated between fits about that, AWOL Nation, and some now famous country singer, and Depeche Mode won. While we argued about who was going to buy it (as that person got to keep the CD later), my mother called, wondering when we were going to be home. I told her not for a while, we were still out, and she sniffled quickly and said okay. Hung up.
We ended up skipping every track but one, a song called "The Child Inside," and drove along 92 watching Taco Loco turn off its lights, turning down the road that led to the house our father was trying to sell so he could move closer to the office he stopped working at four months before.
It was all so coffee table. Something you flip through when you're bored or avoiding conversation.
My sister's not one for talking. When we'd go out to dinner with my father and stepmother, she left the talking to me, as I could talk to anyone, anything. She's better at confrontation. At brooding. At knowing exactly what to say at the exact moment to say it. So, in order to not bother her with the same funny stories about whatever class I was taking at the time, ones I had told her three times that night out of awkwardness, I offered, "we should go buy a CD from Target. One that we've never heard of."
Ten minutes later, after two right turns and a stop light that took too long, we parked next to some banged up Chevy on the Entertainment side of Target. Somewhere between Childish Gambino and Eminem sat this band I had never heard of: Depeche Mode. The English major in me stopped working as I asked "who's Di-petch-eee Mode?" My sister stared at me, the laughed so hard I almost saw pee dribble down her jeans.
We debated between fits about that, AWOL Nation, and some now famous country singer, and Depeche Mode won. While we argued about who was going to buy it (as that person got to keep the CD later), my mother called, wondering when we were going to be home. I told her not for a while, we were still out, and she sniffled quickly and said okay. Hung up.
We ended up skipping every track but one, a song called "The Child Inside," and drove along 92 watching Taco Loco turn off its lights, turning down the road that led to the house our father was trying to sell so he could move closer to the office he stopped working at four months before.
It was all so coffee table. Something you flip through when you're bored or avoiding conversation.
Junkyard 4 Week 8
If I had an out of body experience right now, it would look something like this:
A girl, dressed in black polyester blend pants with a purple stripe down the side,
alternates between picking at a small hole in the right thigh and plucking lint clumps
off the Arkansas pullover she stole from her sister.
In front of her sits a computer, overheating and angry, sticky from apricot juice.
To her right, a water bottle with a chewed cap and a list of lists
in handwriting too tiny to read. Her stomach growls once, twice, three times
before heating up two day old leftovers in a faculty lounge, hoping no one sees.
The spinning rainbow wheel in the middle of the screen makes her start scratching
her scalp, running fingers along her eyebrows, prodding at a blood blister
from slamming her finger in the frozen car door the other day.
The same day as the leftovers.
Finally, an email sends and the wheel stops spinning. She takes a bite of food
and the phone to the left rings. She crosses a note off her list.
There's something subtle about February.
A girl, dressed in black polyester blend pants with a purple stripe down the side,
alternates between picking at a small hole in the right thigh and plucking lint clumps
off the Arkansas pullover she stole from her sister.
In front of her sits a computer, overheating and angry, sticky from apricot juice.
To her right, a water bottle with a chewed cap and a list of lists
in handwriting too tiny to read. Her stomach growls once, twice, three times
before heating up two day old leftovers in a faculty lounge, hoping no one sees.
The spinning rainbow wheel in the middle of the screen makes her start scratching
her scalp, running fingers along her eyebrows, prodding at a blood blister
from slamming her finger in the frozen car door the other day.
The same day as the leftovers.
Finally, an email sends and the wheel stops spinning. She takes a bite of food
and the phone to the left rings. She crosses a note off her list.
There's something subtle about February.
Junkyard 3 Week 8
Yesterday, before the rain came, a woman with a cotton sack
like a pillow case came to my door, not begging,
but asking. For lint, she said. I looked at my belly button,
and back at her. From the dryer, she clarified.
I asked what for. She said she's a lint weaver.
A weaver of lint. She said they take lint and spin it to yarn.
Even Google doesn't know.
As I pulled out the lint catcher, she smiled, explained
she was going to make a sweater for her sister's baby,
a girl named Jane. She likes pink and horses.
I handed her the bag, saw her out the door, and while I watched,
she walked up the hill and across the street, ready to ask again.
like a pillow case came to my door, not begging,
but asking. For lint, she said. I looked at my belly button,
and back at her. From the dryer, she clarified.
I asked what for. She said she's a lint weaver.
A weaver of lint. She said they take lint and spin it to yarn.
Even Google doesn't know.
As I pulled out the lint catcher, she smiled, explained
she was going to make a sweater for her sister's baby,
a girl named Jane. She likes pink and horses.
I handed her the bag, saw her out the door, and while I watched,
she walked up the hill and across the street, ready to ask again.
Junkyard 2 Week 8
Someone said it would snow, but out my window
is a stony sky pebbling rain.
My sister calls, Birmingham has rain too.
When my roommate tries to walk down the porch stairs,
she almost falls, because whatever landed, froze.
is a stony sky pebbling rain.
My sister calls, Birmingham has rain too.
When my roommate tries to walk down the porch stairs,
she almost falls, because whatever landed, froze.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Memory 1 Week 8
In his Oscars acceptance speech,
Graham Moore writes about being weird
and later, says there's a part of him that's Chicago,
and Chicago "just wants everyone to like him
and hates conflict and hates yelling
and wants everyone to get along and be nice."
I don't think I heard a single person yell
in the suburbs of Chicago. Instead,
a lot of children running
through freshly tarred driveways
and narrowly missing telephone poles
while sledding. My neighbor, a five year old
girl with a last name that sounds like a pasta,
jumped on the igloo on my front lawn
because she was bored. I, and my sister,
spent six hours, two rounds of shoveling,
and four pairs of gloves building
that three tunneled house.
My mother brought us bags of carrots
and graham crackers with juice boxes.
I was thirteen.
Graham Moore writes about being weird
and later, says there's a part of him that's Chicago,
and Chicago "just wants everyone to like him
and hates conflict and hates yelling
and wants everyone to get along and be nice."
I don't think I heard a single person yell
in the suburbs of Chicago. Instead,
a lot of children running
through freshly tarred driveways
and narrowly missing telephone poles
while sledding. My neighbor, a five year old
girl with a last name that sounds like a pasta,
jumped on the igloo on my front lawn
because she was bored. I, and my sister,
spent six hours, two rounds of shoveling,
and four pairs of gloves building
that three tunneled house.
My mother brought us bags of carrots
and graham crackers with juice boxes.
I was thirteen.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Junkyard 1 Week 8
On Twitter the other day, someone wrote "I feel like I just installed Facebook's
retarded 3rd cousin from Alabama." But we can't say retarded anymore,
or eskimo, because they're not politically correct. Or polite.
retarded 3rd cousin from Alabama." But we can't say retarded anymore,
or eskimo, because they're not politically correct. Or polite.
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