Wednesday, September 29, 2010
What it was like to listen to a woman tell me that she is in prison for attempted suicide but is fine, now, obviously
Weird. I still have no idea what is obvious about that.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Lia turned 24 this month
Lia always seems to be dancing, even when there is no music, even where there is no sound.
Act Natural
Oh, it was the worst feeling in the world—what could be more terrible?—to be the only person in the room with a secret as shameful as his. Gary stood alone as the crowd swarmed around him (is this what milling was?); some people knew each other, while others were comfortable talking to strangers; some people were comfortable keeping to themselves, while Gary was not comfortable at all. Did they know? Could they guess? Why was it that no one, ever, felt as lonely as he did? Why were they all so perfectly, happily normal?
The class took their seats, and immediately Gary knew he had picked the least desirable seat in the room. He had thought it was a safe bet, a desk halfway back on the far right side, but it was obvious as soon as everyone sat down that all the popular people had gathered on the left side, and he was as far from the epicenter of cool as he could have been without being in another room. He wished he was in another room. He sat miserably, waiting for the professor to speak so he could pretend that if only the professor weren’t speaking he would be socializing.
Finally a bearded man strolled in, several minutes late, infuriatingly carefree. He bustled with papers and his backpack hung partway open like a mouth. He discarded a pile of papers into the wastebasket and looked around for something important; he located his coffee mug on the podium and claimed it as if he had found a prize. He was supremely unconcerned that next to him, the class was rudely talking; why didn’t he yell at them for being so rude? At least maybe he could make them pair up and introduce themselves so Gary would know one person...but of course he did no such thing.
After an eternity of coffee gulps and paper rearrangements the professor stood where a professor should and announced unsteadily, “Hi, everyone.” It took a minute for the students to redirect their attention to him. How did they all become friends so quickly? Clearly it was too late for Gary to ever meet anyone—but not that it mattered, because even if someone did talk to him, he’d have to ignore them because they might find out his excruciating secret—
“Okay, let’s focus,” said the professor, sounding distracted, as if he didn’t really care whether they focused or not. “I have here some review sheets; I want to start just by assessing your knowledge of biology, it’s not a quiz, so don’t worry…”
He passed out a pile of worksheets to each row, licking his finger to peel off the right amount. Gary’s anxiety suddenly transferred to the paper the man was distributing—why am I here? I don’t know anything about biology, but I better be good at it—what if I’m not? I need to pass, I need to be the smartest one, if I’m the only loser in here I might as well be the smartest—
The review sheets finally reached Gary and he stared down at it with increasing dismay. He felt nauseated. An equation that required some knowledge of cell division swam in front of his eyes; he struggled to decipher how much each number signified, but as his alarm grew his sensibility diminished; he would never be able to read this, let alone complete it—
“Okay, just take…a few minutes,” said the professor, whose nervous mannerisms threw Gary off even more. How could he ever go to him for help? What if he already knew?
His anxiety swelled like a tidal wave until it pushed out against his skin and it couldn’t swell anymore without bursting; he thought he was going to be sick; it would all come pouring out like water, like vomit, how could he possibly explain that to anyone? Excuse me, biology makes me vomit—literally—I can’t do this, nothing is more embarrassing, I can’t do science, really, help me, please, someone tell me I don’t have to do this, I just want to act!
The class took their seats, and immediately Gary knew he had picked the least desirable seat in the room. He had thought it was a safe bet, a desk halfway back on the far right side, but it was obvious as soon as everyone sat down that all the popular people had gathered on the left side, and he was as far from the epicenter of cool as he could have been without being in another room. He wished he was in another room. He sat miserably, waiting for the professor to speak so he could pretend that if only the professor weren’t speaking he would be socializing.
Finally a bearded man strolled in, several minutes late, infuriatingly carefree. He bustled with papers and his backpack hung partway open like a mouth. He discarded a pile of papers into the wastebasket and looked around for something important; he located his coffee mug on the podium and claimed it as if he had found a prize. He was supremely unconcerned that next to him, the class was rudely talking; why didn’t he yell at them for being so rude? At least maybe he could make them pair up and introduce themselves so Gary would know one person...but of course he did no such thing.
After an eternity of coffee gulps and paper rearrangements the professor stood where a professor should and announced unsteadily, “Hi, everyone.” It took a minute for the students to redirect their attention to him. How did they all become friends so quickly? Clearly it was too late for Gary to ever meet anyone—but not that it mattered, because even if someone did talk to him, he’d have to ignore them because they might find out his excruciating secret—
“Okay, let’s focus,” said the professor, sounding distracted, as if he didn’t really care whether they focused or not. “I have here some review sheets; I want to start just by assessing your knowledge of biology, it’s not a quiz, so don’t worry…”
He passed out a pile of worksheets to each row, licking his finger to peel off the right amount. Gary’s anxiety suddenly transferred to the paper the man was distributing—why am I here? I don’t know anything about biology, but I better be good at it—what if I’m not? I need to pass, I need to be the smartest one, if I’m the only loser in here I might as well be the smartest—
The review sheets finally reached Gary and he stared down at it with increasing dismay. He felt nauseated. An equation that required some knowledge of cell division swam in front of his eyes; he struggled to decipher how much each number signified, but as his alarm grew his sensibility diminished; he would never be able to read this, let alone complete it—
“Okay, just take…a few minutes,” said the professor, whose nervous mannerisms threw Gary off even more. How could he ever go to him for help? What if he already knew?
His anxiety swelled like a tidal wave until it pushed out against his skin and it couldn’t swell anymore without bursting; he thought he was going to be sick; it would all come pouring out like water, like vomit, how could he possibly explain that to anyone? Excuse me, biology makes me vomit—literally—I can’t do this, nothing is more embarrassing, I can’t do science, really, help me, please, someone tell me I don’t have to do this, I just want to act!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Practicing/Describing
It was an odd day. The light was dimming rather more uniformly than usual, like a dimmer on a dining room lamp; perhaps the recent drop in temperature (though still in the eighties) had cleared the air a bit, and made everything more visible, somehow.
Cars were passing through the intersection of Trinity and Meadow, but quite slowly, or was I moving faster than normal? On second glance, the cars were behaving quite mundanely. For some reason I, standing uncertainly on the curb, unable to time my crossing, like a fast-pitch baseball player suddenly at bat in a softball game, I was not perceiving things as usual today.
About that: no, I was not at all: in fact, since this morning I’d been seeing things, not seeing things exactly but seeing people, people I thought I knew but on second thought were complete strangers. For instance, earlier today I’d been walking on the sidewalk in the opposite direction I now walked, and I was confounded to see, at a deli across the street, a woman from my semester in India, calmly munching on bread and listening to her companion ramble on. I actually stopped walking (much to the disgust of the cyclist behind me) and stared for a full ten seconds, it must have been, before I shook myself out of it. Could it have been her? Still I wonder: the woman in question had those eyes, those same eyes as Katrina, large as planets but somehow...sagging, almost, the lower lid drooping more than lids tend to do.
And that was how today had been: me, awestruck at the uncanny resemblance so many around me bore to people I once knew; it was not just a passing resemblance, it was the details, repetitions of those nuances, dimples, snag teeth, freckles, pointy ears, those odd characteristics which, in a friend, you think are unmistakable, unrepeatable stamps of identity! Apparently two bodies can share the same mark of uniqueness.
Other than that, I reflected, today was almost entirely unnoteworthy, although the sheer multitude of double takes I’ve done might brand the day in my memory. When I reflect I often come upon the realization that I will almost certainly not remember a certain day, and what a shame that is. Unless something significant happens on a given day, it will most likely slide around the funnel of my memory, until it finally disappears into the buzz of my personal history, where only themes and generalities exist.
I suppose it’s not entirely bad, though, that not everyday is memorable. For instance, that means I can write something new every single day, and if I am cautious enough to save it, I can go back and read something I don’t remember. Ah! I can surprise myself!
I wonder, if I were to meet myself a year ago, would I be surprised at what I found myself doing?
Cars were passing through the intersection of Trinity and Meadow, but quite slowly, or was I moving faster than normal? On second glance, the cars were behaving quite mundanely. For some reason I, standing uncertainly on the curb, unable to time my crossing, like a fast-pitch baseball player suddenly at bat in a softball game, I was not perceiving things as usual today.
About that: no, I was not at all: in fact, since this morning I’d been seeing things, not seeing things exactly but seeing people, people I thought I knew but on second thought were complete strangers. For instance, earlier today I’d been walking on the sidewalk in the opposite direction I now walked, and I was confounded to see, at a deli across the street, a woman from my semester in India, calmly munching on bread and listening to her companion ramble on. I actually stopped walking (much to the disgust of the cyclist behind me) and stared for a full ten seconds, it must have been, before I shook myself out of it. Could it have been her? Still I wonder: the woman in question had those eyes, those same eyes as Katrina, large as planets but somehow...sagging, almost, the lower lid drooping more than lids tend to do.
And that was how today had been: me, awestruck at the uncanny resemblance so many around me bore to people I once knew; it was not just a passing resemblance, it was the details, repetitions of those nuances, dimples, snag teeth, freckles, pointy ears, those odd characteristics which, in a friend, you think are unmistakable, unrepeatable stamps of identity! Apparently two bodies can share the same mark of uniqueness.
Other than that, I reflected, today was almost entirely unnoteworthy, although the sheer multitude of double takes I’ve done might brand the day in my memory. When I reflect I often come upon the realization that I will almost certainly not remember a certain day, and what a shame that is. Unless something significant happens on a given day, it will most likely slide around the funnel of my memory, until it finally disappears into the buzz of my personal history, where only themes and generalities exist.
I suppose it’s not entirely bad, though, that not everyday is memorable. For instance, that means I can write something new every single day, and if I am cautious enough to save it, I can go back and read something I don’t remember. Ah! I can surprise myself!
I wonder, if I were to meet myself a year ago, would I be surprised at what I found myself doing?
Interview with a Woman Who Recently Gave Birth, in her Living Room (The Interview, not the Birth)
I sat down on a ratty yellow couch and sank farther back than I intended to. The room was poorly lit and everything seemed to be a varying shade of brown and in considerable disrepair. Actually, when I looked closer, the room revealed itself to be an odd mix of old, uncared-for things, and nicer, but not too nice, things. A broken vase served as an ashtray on the coffee table next to a black and white photograph in a wooden frame. A rocking chair hid under a pile of papers and envelopes. The room would have been an acceptable living room if not for all the trash strewn about, and if the curtains weren’t drawn over the windows.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said, hoping I didn’t look too uncomfortable.
Heather sat on the other side of the couch, her feet tucked up under her tiny body, biting her thumbnail. She appeared to be trying to take up as little space as possible. She wore an enormous t-shirt and shapeless sweat pants. Would she look as young if she were wearing a more flattering outfit?
“Nn,” she offered, not looking at me. Then she seemed to remember I was there and said, “Oh.”
I waited until I was sure she was done responding.
“Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”
She nodded. She reminded me of a child.
“How long ago did you give birth to a baby boy?”
Chewing. “Not sure.”
“Can you remember anything about when it was? Weeks, months ago?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Do you remember what you named him?”
“Stanley.” She took me by surprise with how quickly she answered, and how softly.
“Why did you name him Stanley?”
She shrugged. “My dad.”
“It was your dad’s name?”
“No.”
I struggled to relate the two.
“It reminds me of my dad.”
“Ah. Wow. Um, what did you do after you gave birth?”
Her eyes widened so I knew she was listening.
She shook her head.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay, we don’t have to. Can you tell me a little bit about Delia? What’s it like living with her?”
“Good.”
“Is she good to you?”
Heather nodded.
“I remember now,” she said.
“Remember what?”
“Stanley.”
“What about him?”
“It was seventy six days ago.”
“His birthday, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Where is he now?”
“At the hospital,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. He’s blind.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel about having given birth?”
She remained stoic for a minute and then I saw a tear form in her eye.
“Are you okay?”
She still wouldn’t look at me. Her whole face was concealed by her hand.
“Do you still think about it?”
She nodded.
“What do you think about?”
Silence.
“He probably hates me,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
Finally she looked at me.
“Wouldn’t you?”
I was stunned.
“No, Heather,” I said. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t understand.”
“He will.”
“It’s not too late. Do you want to see him?”
She chewed on her thumbnail and drew her legs in even tighter.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mm.”
“Heather, I have to ask you something. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Fiercer chewing.
“Dunno.”
“Anything at all?”
Nothing.
“A mom.”
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said, hoping I didn’t look too uncomfortable.
Heather sat on the other side of the couch, her feet tucked up under her tiny body, biting her thumbnail. She appeared to be trying to take up as little space as possible. She wore an enormous t-shirt and shapeless sweat pants. Would she look as young if she were wearing a more flattering outfit?
“Nn,” she offered, not looking at me. Then she seemed to remember I was there and said, “Oh.”
I waited until I was sure she was done responding.
“Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”
She nodded. She reminded me of a child.
“How long ago did you give birth to a baby boy?”
Chewing. “Not sure.”
“Can you remember anything about when it was? Weeks, months ago?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Do you remember what you named him?”
“Stanley.” She took me by surprise with how quickly she answered, and how softly.
“Why did you name him Stanley?”
She shrugged. “My dad.”
“It was your dad’s name?”
“No.”
I struggled to relate the two.
“It reminds me of my dad.”
“Ah. Wow. Um, what did you do after you gave birth?”
Her eyes widened so I knew she was listening.
She shook her head.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay, we don’t have to. Can you tell me a little bit about Delia? What’s it like living with her?”
“Good.”
“Is she good to you?”
Heather nodded.
“I remember now,” she said.
“Remember what?”
“Stanley.”
“What about him?”
“It was seventy six days ago.”
“His birthday, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Where is he now?”
“At the hospital,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. He’s blind.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel about having given birth?”
She remained stoic for a minute and then I saw a tear form in her eye.
“Are you okay?”
She still wouldn’t look at me. Her whole face was concealed by her hand.
“Do you still think about it?”
She nodded.
“What do you think about?”
Silence.
“He probably hates me,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
Finally she looked at me.
“Wouldn’t you?”
I was stunned.
“No, Heather,” I said. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t understand.”
“He will.”
“It’s not too late. Do you want to see him?”
She chewed on her thumbnail and drew her legs in even tighter.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mm.”
“Heather, I have to ask you something. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Fiercer chewing.
“Dunno.”
“Anything at all?”
Nothing.
“A mom.”
Document1.doc
At ten forty I asked him if he knew when they were coming home, and he said he didn’t.
While I waited I sat in the kitchen and made myself toast. I ate it with cinnamon sugar. I stared at the bread while I was eating it and thought about how it was a good thing I like toast, or else I wouldn’t have anything to do while I waited.
When the toast was done I went into the living room. I couldn’t find the remote so I let the TV watch me for once.
Finally it was eleven o’clock and they still weren’t home, so I called again just to make sure, and he sounded annoyed and said it was still too early to know. I hung up.
Now that I had everything to myself and I knew I would for awhile, and the neighbors weren’t around because they both go to work at eleven o’clock, I could finally sit down and do what I wanted.
I knew how to turn on Ronny’s computer because I’d seen him do it before, though he didn’t know I knew how. I waited for the screen to wake up and thought about whether I wanted another piece of toast. If the screen isn’t awake in ten seconds I’ll go make one. One, two, three…
It woke up on five so I didn’t make toast. Instead I waited until the little hourglass was gone and then clicked “Start.” I needed to find the blank white screen. I typed in “typing” in the search box.
Nothing came up. I typed in “write.” Nothing. I typed in “words.” There it was.
My heart was beating faster than usual. Maybe it was the sugar in the cinnamon sugar, or maybe it was because I found the right part of the computer to type in. I estimated that I had at least two hours before Ronny and the others got home. I would have to type fast.
I began to type what was on my mind and realized how hard it is to write what is happening as it happens, so I moved back and wrote about the past twenty minutes or so. I feel more and more relaxed. Maybe tonight I will sleep.
While I waited I sat in the kitchen and made myself toast. I ate it with cinnamon sugar. I stared at the bread while I was eating it and thought about how it was a good thing I like toast, or else I wouldn’t have anything to do while I waited.
When the toast was done I went into the living room. I couldn’t find the remote so I let the TV watch me for once.
Finally it was eleven o’clock and they still weren’t home, so I called again just to make sure, and he sounded annoyed and said it was still too early to know. I hung up.
Now that I had everything to myself and I knew I would for awhile, and the neighbors weren’t around because they both go to work at eleven o’clock, I could finally sit down and do what I wanted.
I knew how to turn on Ronny’s computer because I’d seen him do it before, though he didn’t know I knew how. I waited for the screen to wake up and thought about whether I wanted another piece of toast. If the screen isn’t awake in ten seconds I’ll go make one. One, two, three…
It woke up on five so I didn’t make toast. Instead I waited until the little hourglass was gone and then clicked “Start.” I needed to find the blank white screen. I typed in “typing” in the search box.
Nothing came up. I typed in “write.” Nothing. I typed in “words.” There it was.
My heart was beating faster than usual. Maybe it was the sugar in the cinnamon sugar, or maybe it was because I found the right part of the computer to type in. I estimated that I had at least two hours before Ronny and the others got home. I would have to type fast.
I began to type what was on my mind and realized how hard it is to write what is happening as it happens, so I moved back and wrote about the past twenty minutes or so. I feel more and more relaxed. Maybe tonight I will sleep.
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