Driving Home

Fake grape flavored wax candy melted 
in the back seat window
leftover, diagonally cut tomato sandwiches   
unwrapped and covered in sand 
a bottle of coconut suntan oil shattered  
on wet-foot-print pavement 
we were driving home 
in the great big Kojak car 
the plastic beach ball still warm from the sun
and one deflated vinyl seahorse 
that smelled artificial and so happy.
like a sun-induced headache
like endless blue summer skies.  

Assignment Complete

You are a molded papier mache ticker-tape creature. A beating heart. A million ideas and observations pressed together in your ready-brain. You are super awareness. A secret weapon. The finished product of all of their training. Broken down. Built back up. Created like magic as though out of thin air. You are invisible as you wait in the old vestibule watching headlights illuminate sparkling rain. It is right then that all the pieces seem to fit together. You step out the door and down the street with your head up and your eyes looking straight ahead. Looking like no one. Looking like you could be anyone. Fifteen minutes later the orange juice and the carton of eggs are on the motion sensitive conveyor. The transaction goes down without incident. You don't blink an eye. Finally, you get your change, your receipt and take your bag and leave the premises at a steady, normal pace. Assignment complete. For now, that is.

A Foregone Conclusion

When I was little, a restaurant named Zuppa's opened up in an old storefront near where we lived. I remember noticing from the street, even as we raced by, my mom semi-dragging me by the elbow, that Zuppa's had abandoned many of the contrivances of 1960's restaurant design. All the old, safe concepts--the cooled down colors, the thick, unifying coats of white paint, the ubiquitous white table cloths were gone. Instead, Zuppa's interior glowed with warmth. The walls were rough, ocher colored and outlined by dark wood trim. And the room was faceted by the sparkle of candles, rich textures and colors.


When Zuppa's opened in the fall, they put fairy lights in the trees just outside pulling this magic out into the street for everyone to enjoy. The effect was inviting and maybe even a tiny bit shocking at the time. Had they actually put Christmas lights up before Halloween? On deciduous trees?! It didn't matter, though. The incredible smell of velvety tomato sauces, roasted garlic, fresh baked bread, steamed muscles, braciole, mushrooms melting in butter with white wine mesmerized the neighborhood. People went in the door of Zuppa's--in out from the cold--laughing amongst themselves, leaving behind their own trail of wonderful suede and lemony perfume. These were people that were just that much younger than my parents. These were people that I was going to be one day. 


This version of adulthood--which I, for whatever reason, projected onto the patrons of Zuppa's--contained no years of struggle, no troubled friends, no loneliness, no searching. This version of adulthood as imagined by a nine-year-old contained no bad people, no great-big mistakes, no strife. It was simply 1) four years of college (bangs, Levis, Addidas and probably Love's Baby Soft) followed by 2) being a grown-up (cashmere sweaters, Joan & David and most certainly Chanel No. 5). 'Grown-up' being that juncture in one's life that directly follows childhood. That juncture where one not only has everything figured out but also has great hair, a career and a small circle of happy, supportive friends.    


One day I was going to get to Zuppa's. It was true. And this meant many things that I never literally put into words so much as knew or felt. It was just that every single time I walked past Zuppa's this goal, this image of idealized adulthood was reinforced in my mind as always out there somewhere in the future. The events that would connect those dots were still uncertain. And, although those grown-ups (as found at Zuppa's) had some hard to define quality, it wasn't about one's station in life, necessarily, or success. It was something about being perfectly comfortable in the world. About laughing. About being happy. And I, too, would get there, one day. I had it all worked out. 

I've Always Loved The Bean

The Bean makes me feel like I'm walking though the other side of a mirror-world. Or, like there's an upside down sky that I might fall into if I'm not perfectly careful. Or that maybe it is possible to reflect everything in the world all at once--at least everything in Chicago--just so long as your mirror is properly shaped like a Bean.


Walking slowly up to the Bean--something I do more often than I care to admit--while looking at it as a whole, as a sculpture, or while specifically looking for myself or whomever I happen to be with in the reflection of the Bean, is, at the very least, mildly dizzying. As well, my eyes are drawn to the reflection of the sun which seems to shut down parts of my vision for whole minutes. So, naturally, I keep losing track of where my feet go. And of where the ground is. 


You can see hundreds of people approaching the Bean. Most while looking through their cameras and phones. After a few minutes of looking at the Bean I definitely feel less attached to the ground and more weightless than I prefer. As though tripping and falling could actually mean crashing through the sky. Which, as fun, reflective, upside down ideas go, is suboptimal for me. Yet I keep returning. I just love the Bean. 

It's a Stack of Jeans

It's a stack of jeans. Denim. About fifteen pairs. There is no other way to describe it. I keep them sorted in a stack as it is only in this way that my jeans can be all in one place and still remain reasonably visible. As well, I keep them sorted this way because I just can't bear to hang any jeans on a hanger. I mean it, if I ever have to hang a pair of jeans on a hanger it's over. I will leave. There will be no note, no explanation. I'll just be gone. And I will never come back. 


The problem is, every once in a while this stack of jeans falls over or becomes degraded as pairs are inevitably taken out from the middle. So, what was almost square, compact, even towering as a stack of jeans--become more of a slanted, untidy, mountain of jeans. Or, 'pile of jeans', if you will. Then I re-fold them and carefully place the jeans back into a stack formation. This occurring three, four sometimes as many as five times a day. One day I'm sure I will finally throw my hands up and say, 'You win, jeans!'. One day. But that day is not today. 

Treetops

What I assumed was an owl (what I had always assumed was an owl--maybe not the same owl, but an owl) whoo-ing in the distance turns out not to be an owl at all. It is likely a dove. This was explained to me by my significant other who is really good at delivering correct information. That is to say, the kind of information that might turn another's world and their assumptions about it upside down. He does it in such a whatever-your-idea-is-funnier-I wouldn't-have-a world-without-your-funny-ideas way. He is kind even when it is not necessary to take the extra step of being kind. He treats people well. He does this because he is a genuinely happy, strong, mentally sound person. I mention owls and get told, no, doves. It's hard, but like I said, there's always laughter with my significant other. Laughter followed by cake and coffee. You can imagine how I laughed, ultimately, when I realized just how long I had thought a dove (or doves) was an owl. It's true. We aren't in the forest. I kind of thought we were. It was the three or four pine trees that threw me off. The woodpecker noise, however, is real. That has been confirmed. I hear woodpeckers everywhere, so this is a relief. I like the specific hollowness of the sound that woodpeckers make. It reminds me of the few wooden instruments that wait to be played on the percussion-person's percussion table at the symphony. Some of these instruments are used only rarely. Some of them are used just once during a performance. But, oh, when they do use the wooden percussive instruments, it's always perfect. Such woodpecker sounds (whether real, musically reproduced or imagined) make me feel both grounded and transported. Transported to somewhere exotic like maybe Michigan or even Ohio. And, it brings the word 'treetops' to mind for some reason. In a font that's probably called Twiggy Sans. I'm picturing just about any Great Lake's region summer camp T-shirt: 'Camp Something Or Other'. The words are rendered from twig-shaped letter with a graphic of pine trees in the background. Camp Something Or Other. Pine trees. Tree houses. Owls. Birds. Twigs. Great Lakes. It's been a strange, unprecedentedly early spring this year. All of the ubiquitous symbols are jangling around in my winter-brain like a box of coat hangers trying unsuccessfully to un-puzzle themselves. At this rate it will be summer by Tuesday. And I am, as one might expect, very confused. 

Square One

You have brain fog and can't express yourself. At least not in the manner you did before. Over the course of months the brain fog lifts but, unfortunately, old modes of expression do not return. Instead, you start over from square one and awkwardly learn other modes of expression. And, although it sounds fairly frustrating, and is fairly frustrating, in the end you state that you'd 'not have it any other way'. Meanwhile, vague, wordless impressions of struggling at being new in the world silently bubble to the surface. It's almost like getting a whole new life. Only, no one tells you that it's like getting a whole new life. Or, maybe they do, but when they do you automatically tune out such messages as 'unlikely'. 

Blue Apple

I had a dream that I was in a produce aisle. At some point I noticed a blue apple. At first I was surprised by an apple being blue but then I remembered, 'Oh, of course, blue apples! How could I have forgotten?'. Then I looked around and saw that there were whole bins of dark green and white apples. Then I woke up. I felt rested. But the question remained: Why a blue apple? Could this dream have something to do with finally admitting to myself that I really don't know that much about apples? That apples, like most fruits and vegetables, are full of surprises? The thing is, I was really happy about the apple being blue. I felt certain that I had simply lost track of such apples and was mildly shocked by my ability to completely forget such a thing. It felt almost careless on my part. And I felt a tiny bit guilty for the carelessness. And something about the blue apple corresponded with a pair of faded navy blue leather shoes I had in the fifth grade that I loved and wore with everything until they literally disintegrated. The colors in my dream were vibrant and occurred in strange and interesting combinations. It felt symbolic of creativity and ingenuity. Of endless possibilities on many, though wordless, fluent fronts in what is probably my lizard brain. Or is it my bird brain? So, in summary, my dream was good and it was about apples. Personally, I like mine cut into bite sized cubes mixed with some baby spinach and tossed with homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Delish!

A Sideboard of One's Own

Our house? Shoes. It's shoes strewn about pointing every-which-way. That's how I'd describe it. And creaky floors. And streaks on a mirrors and surfaces. And stacks of things. And old things. And good things. And things that were never really ours. Things that either of us inherited. And some things still in boxes that are forever infused with an on-the-cusp smell of plain, unscented yet to be burned candles.  


It's the way that one cabinet always smelled. The one where we kept the cloth napkins. Best. Luncheon. Everyday. In that order. All ironed. All folded and awaiting duty. It contained the paper napkins, too. A few stray Raggedy Ann birthday napkins sat forgotten and waiting in vain for over thirty years. And there was the never opened package of cocktail napkins that were older than me. The napkins themselves embossed with the letter J in a font that no longer even exists. One wonders what happened--why were these J napkins never used?


It was a sideboard. It contained table setting items. Napkin rings. Tasteful trivets--trivets so restrained in their design that it left one frozen, speechless then weeping for the pure incredibility of it all. It contained boxes of long wooden matchsticks with gold tips used on Christmas to light luminarias, gorgeous teal and gold peacock motif matchbooks just 'because' and special retractable forks for the polite skewing of olives and pickles--as well, jewel colored glass swizzle sticks, mother of pearl petit-four servers, silver sugar cube tongs, and every kind of glassware imaginable.


It was like some unspoken goal that I had always had, that I knew I had always had but that I had never acknowledged that I had always had: I wanted a sideboard. A sideboard of my own. Filled with items just for the purpose of entertaining. Filled with things like tea sets, hand painted autumn leaf centerpieces, varieties of birthday candles (pastel colored, primary colored, numbers, roman numerals, letters in comic sans and helvetica), baby shower cupcake decorations, little tiny vodka glasses, lobster themed salt and pepper shakers, cupid bow and arrow themed paper plates. And, all the way in the back, a set of six mortgage burning themed martini glasses.


Not to mention the notebook. Neatly handwritten personal notes and sketches--with pages torn from magazines of coconut covered cakes elevated on antique milk-glass pedestals, of ladylike floral arrangements in yellows and golds, of white-on-white winter table-scapes, of recipes, of seating arrangements, of china patterns.


Yes. It was all there. Existing somewhere in the back my mind. A sideboard. A cabinet for the singular purpose of table setting. Never opened for any reason other than for a hostess to prepare to host. She--kneeling before her sideboard, considering her choices. Probably while wearing a long, dark pink velvet hostess gown with empire waist and oval neckline. Probably while wearing matching gold pave ring and brooch. Probably with her hair half-up. Probably with a daub of Shalimar behind each ear. 


And when you arrive the hostess throws open the door and says, Hellooo! and gives you a lipstick side kiss and hands you a scotch and a little plate because this party is a buffet. There are miniature meatballs in a caramelized grape-jelly sauce, artichoke dip, cheese fondu, sliced beef, pasta in lemon shallot. Lots of delicious things. All in special matching buffet dishes that are kept warm via the flame of utilitarian candles meant for that very purpose (hence such candles having a thick, more rough-hewn appearance than a normal votive might; hence such candles being kept quite apart from the other more decorative candles). 


Later, maybe even the next day, with windows wide open and abundant sunshine coming through, after all the dishes have been done, after all the bins have been emptied and all the bottles have been taken to the curb, after all the candle holders have been given a warm soapy soak, and all the floors have been swept and mopped and dried and the guest towels have been replaced and fluffed--later, perhaps while listening to some soft music--all the items used to set the table, used to entertain (now clean, now dry, now lined up neatly on the dining room table) will be put carefully back into the sideboard; carefully back where table setting items belong.  


. . .
Our house? A sideboard in our house--even this very sideboard described from my childhood--would hold very neatly a few candles and the five or six tablecloths I've collected over the years and then I'd be looking around wondering what else to put in it. Though at first I'd resist any such suggestion, the unused space would quickly begin to house practical things. Grocery bags, light bulbs, boxes of raisin bran. Then, later, freezer bags, rolls of duct tape, cat chow--even some loose rubber bands. And the sideboard wouldn't be positioned in the dining room where it would make sense, but more awkwardly in a hallway. And there would always be a stack of junk mail on top of it. And, occasionally, a pizza box on top of that.
. . . 

Snow Day