Any House In the World

Because it was Christmas Day, I got two seats to myself on the train to St. Louis. I brought my laptop and a bunch of reading materials so, of course, I just stared out of the window the entire trip. The combined effect of the train's motion and cushioned silence with the awareness of entire towns flying past at a hundred miles an hour had a tranquilizing effect on me.  

Hours passed. Everything about the train finally imposed a superficial simplicity onto the outer world in a way that only high speed trains can, I suppose. So, actual people and houses were now actors living in mocked up sets that looked like real houses in towns that were mere plastic replicas. Far away, pretend towns that twinkled a little with Christmas lights even as early as seven in the morning.  

Problems? People in this town didn't have any problems. Not anymore. None that could be detected behind such air-tight windows as found on this Amtrak train. Distance? Speed? Such necessitated the making of snap judgements. Details? There were no details. Only a blur where the world used to be. By the time I arrived in St. Louis, I, too, wanted a hundred-mile-an-hour life as seen from the safe distance of a commuter train. By then I'd have traded lives with anyone. And by 'lives' I mean houses.

Take, for example, the blue house with white shutters and brick chimney that I saw somewhere between Joliet and St. Louis. It was neat as a pin. A perfect little house with pine trees all around it. I noticed a tiny potted plant set on what had to be the kitchen window sill. There, a white lace curtain was pushed to one side. 

Steam, presumably from the dryer, came reassuringly from a vent on the side of the house. All the while smoke from the fireplace came from the chimney. I sensed that this house was spotlessly clean on the inside, too. Maybe even a bit under-furnished as only houses of normal, non-hoarding, non-neurotic people can be. 

And, though the house had to be at least a hundred years old, all the trim was new or at least newly painted. I sensed a strong 'no shoes worn inside' vibe coming from this house. I could practically see all the machine washable slippers lined up neatly by the front door. It was just a *hunch that I had.

*A fairly strong hunch, however.

As well, I was certain that every single piece of paper that came into this house was filed not only immediately, but properly in a nice, unassuming rolling file cabinet that was situated next to the desk in the office. Right next to the shredder. Because it makes sense to have file cabinets next to shredders in home offices. And, in this house, everything made sense.

Which explains why there are no stacks of paper anywhere. Not even little stacks of receipts or coupons near phones or mixed up with the mail, as I've seen happen. There is no clutter. Not even a junk drawer. In fact, in this house there are still a few drawers and cabinets that have nothing stored in them. These are earmarked, as they say, for 'future growth'. Because the people that live in this house think about things like the future. 

My favorite room? The little sewing room off of the laundry room. It doubles as a space for ironing clothes but there's a fold-away bed in there for guests, too. There's a great big gray and white plaid blanket and lots of gray and white pillows. In the closet are shelves filled with sewing and ironing supplies. There's this one bottle of liquid that makes the steam in the iron smell nice. You just pour into the iron instead of water. It's called 'Air' but it smells more like 'Sunshine' to me.

Cinnamony

Why are things always described as "minty fresh"? Why not "cinnamony fresh"? You never hear people say "cinnamony"? Why is that? And who decided that mint is fresh? 

Is mint fresh?! 

Does mint have properties of freshness that cinnamon lacks? Does mint restore things to a fresher state? Or is it implicitly fresh? Would cinnamon not do the same thing that mint is purported to do? 

What is it that mint does?

Same Kitchen, Different Decade

Fun with re-staging old photos. Obviously, I'm in the 'figuring it out' stage. This was an impromptu attempt. I've started sorting through old photos looking for ones that might be good candidates or just challenging enough to be interesting. 

Here, my niece and I are in my mom's kitchen having what we call a 'Cookie Day'. We get together to make Christmas cookies at my mom's house each year. The first photo was taken in 2002. I find it funny that my mother's kitchen hasn't changed at all in ten years (the only thing staged for this re-do was positioning ourselves where we were standing in 2002. I got the idea to do thus twenty minutes before I left for my mom's house. We took one shot). 

Note that the little item on the shelf to the very left of both photos (a tiny double decker bus memento from a trip to London) is in exactly the same postion as it was in 2002. And that the plant in the background has gotten completely out of hand. The light is very different as is the general quality of the photo (better camera/digital = today). The hand mixer and bowl are unchanged. However, my niece is now as tall as I am. She's the only thing that makes any of this interesting. She was a good sport. It was fun. We'll definitely be doing this again.

Mystery Kitten

There is a kitten in my life. He looks like a little polar bear. He's a big white cat. If I have a bad day he sticks by me like he knows I'm sad. He'll look up at me or my significant other sometimes with this very serious little kitten face. Where did you come from, kitten?

That's the thing. He literally just appeared on our doorstep three years ago. He's a mystery kitten. A mood stabilizing, problem solving mystery kitten with a very serious little face. I realize a photo would be appropriate right now but my photos are still on my old lap top. Another time.

Cassette Tape

I remember seeing insane tumbles of tangled-up cassette tape flying down the expressway or trailing out of a random cars. Or, even stuck in the branches of trees. It was normal. It was a normal, everyday thing to see in the eighties and even the nineties. When was the last time I saw cassette tape unraveled in such a manner? Released from its case for reasons one could never really know, yet knew all too well. Or, merely flying overhead in the wind independent of logic or reason? When was the last time I witnessed cassette tape being  jettisoned out of someone's window? Cassette tape that was both crunchy and silky to the touch if that's even possible. It was true. Because a tape–any tape–found in this state just might be a double album or something great. And maybe I would be the one who would finally rewind what those yelling people up on the eighth floor clearly could not: a tape. A cassette tape. We played them on tape players; we tossed them over our shoulders into back seats, kicked them around living rooms and stored them on hot windshields. And they–the tapes–never asked for anything. They did not ask to be listened to forever, they didn't even ask for ten years. No, they asked to be listened to for a few years. On players that wouldn't last six months and would eventually reject the tape. Just spit it back out. Without warning. The music itself very often still playing as though nothing were wrong.         

In a Yard with Roses

Wayward poppy seeds 
on flimsy paper plates,

the empty 
macaroni salad bowl,

green peeling paint 
on metal chairs,
a chipped blue veil 
on the Virgin Mary's head,
in a yard with roses, 
looming rain clouds, 
a spider
and broken statues, 
in a yard with bees 
that hover too near me 
and this, my amazing 
bratwurst sandwich,
we eat, 
though it is raining on us, 
we eat, 
though we'd rather eat inside.

Rainbow

After the rain 
here in the parking lot 
that's paved with broken 
windshield shards 
sparkling back 
a million hard sunsets 
like crushed orange and lemon 
stained glass candy 
where deep dark puddles 
act as mirrors
to just washed liquid skies 
here, a real rainbow occurred 
a real rainbow
wordless as marquees go 
a silent disco shoot
a bright loopy slide 
stretching universe to universe 
a rainbow 
a real rainbow
spilling out of the sky
and I felt super lucky
and secretly happy 
as I collapsed my umbrella
and saw everyone around me
reaching for their phones. 

Re-Reading Childhood Books

I never found my original copy of Little House on the Prairie. I'll admit that this bothered me for years. I just assumed that all such missing items from childhood were 'somewhere at my Dad's house' and, it turns out, years later (perplexingly) that none of those things were at my Dad's house. So, my boyfriend, who picked up on my distress, came home with a used copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day. This was so thoughtful and such a surprise that I broke down and cried! Seeing this book (the copy he found was even roughly from the same era as what was my old copy) led me to finally, bravely go searching for my copy of Up a Road Slowly. I had been afraid that this book wasn't where I thought it was and I just didn't want to know for sure that it wasn't. But there it was, on the top shelf of the hallway closet along with Jacob Have I Loved, Tex and The Outsiders. Oddly, Up a Road Slowly has been on my mind a lot lately. I read it the summer before my freshman year in high school–which is confusing as a memory because I also recall being a 'child' when I read it. Something about the way the story is organized, the way the main character respects herself and slowly achieves things meant a great deal to me at fourteen. I recall that I read Up a Road Slowly, which won the Newberry Award and is definitely YA fiction, concurrently with The World According to Garp. It made perfect sense at the time. In honor of this–or due to some sentimental forces beyond my control, I am now re-reading Little House in the Big Woods, Up a Road Slowly and Garp all at once. I highly recommend doing this.   

The Library is Ok

I get a lot done at the library. It's cool and quiet and clean and the floors are made of a special noise absorbing material that also doubles as a kind of pillow for your feet. In my experience, people adjust to the pillow-floor pretty quickly. It causes one to slow down a bit. And, though I don't think it was intended to be a 'feature', the pillow-floor does make everyone that much sneakier. No one ever really knows when someone else is approaching. It's always a surprise. And the sound of the air conditioning, which is just barely audible, is constant–which is key. It's a nice white noise where pure silence might be less effective. Needless to say, people fall asleep at the library all the time. I personally have yet to do so, but I'm not against falling asleep at the library, if and when it does happen. That would be ok.  

The Irony of the Whole Thing

It's the same every time: I'm gliding along calmly not worrying about anything when suddenly I'm swimming desperately to the surface struggling for air. Then I sit up in bed in a panic and can't explain the dream I just had. It's happening right now. Only I'm wide awake. And the distant voice is yelling 'wake up' but I can barely hear it. 


Sometimes I walk around thinking about how happy I am and I forget everything else. Actually, I don't forget anything so much as I don't become involved in the first place. I just focus on whatever I'm doing. I can actually feel my brain learning things. Sometimes I'll start to worry but then I just stop myself. I mean, why worry? There's no reason to worry. 


Other times I'll wake up and realize that there is nothing but sunshine. Not anything else. Not nausea, not panic. Just the sun coming though the curtains. As you can imagine, this leaves room for lots of other things. And that's the irony of the whole thing, right there, if you asked me.