Before the song birds turn to crow

the distant siren of a police car jams down Fessenden Avenue, i live in NoPo. you remember, where you need a gun to walk outside—

Conflicting emotions are a part of the natural adult experience. I find that it is normal to feel confident and solid for hours, then to get stuck in traffic and lose control of my zen-like calm. The beauty of this is that I recognize my rapidly shifting emotions as a product of this culture of instant gratification. I am not pleased about being in traffic, therefor my world is not working for me. WTF? why am I even stuck in traffic for an hour?

A recent conversation went like this (and I am ever the person who realizes hours later what I should have said): "What kind of computer do you have?" a person asked me. "An old G3 I bought in 2002," I replied defensively. "Wow! is that as bright as your screen gets?" Evidently, my computer is ancient. "I guess so." I said tapping the brighten key on top of my keyboard. "Well, ours gets a lot brighter. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

That's when I should have said: "Why? because your consumer product is new, better, and more expensive than mine? does that mean that your life is also better and more fulfilling than mine?" But I didn't because I was ashamed that my computer (which works really well) was older than theirs, so I left and got stuck in traffic and wanted to slam my hand in the door because I was so bored and mad about being poor and having to pay my own way through life.

I used to shop exclusively at goodwill because I thought it was cheap, that was until I went to the mall. I hate malls; the florescent lights make my eyes shiver, the pumping of canned music is sickening, and I hate the smell of cinnabun. I had not been to a mall in years, maybe a decade. I have to admit that I was really tempted to buy really cheap T-shirts—two brightly colored shirts for ten dollars seems to be the norm—I wanted the shirts because I wear T-shirts everyday and I am tired of wearing the same four, but I couldn't stop imagining the tiny fingers that make those tiny stitches. Now that I know how cheap the mall is it is going to be hard to go back to the goodwill bins, but now I have convictions.

the meanwhiles (or, why I want to move to Canada and be a Socialist)

when I read backwards, from bottom to top, I see things in your writing that are not really there

Along with ponies and sandwiches, I also like boats. Especially huge boats with sailors on them. Walking around the periphery of the 100th annual Rose Festival I ogled the boats. They are behemoths, huge towering structures that sit heavily on the water. They carry men and equipment around the world. They protect Our oceans from terrorists. I noticed that there were three sets of boats: American; Canadian; Coast Guard. This would have been of little significance had I not also noticed the accompanying military occupation. The American Boats were heavily guarded. They were docked behind a cyclone fence. The walkway was being patrolled by twenty armed men and women. These people had more than the two regular, right and left arms that you and I have, these people had automatic weapons.

Suddenly, ships and sailors were not as attractive to me. What, I wanted to know, was keeping them from snapping and shooting me? boot camp?

I walked away from them, inland down the esplanade and came to the Canadian ships. There was only one man standing guard and since he only had two regular arms like you and I, I felt safe approaching him. He wasn't even a real sailor, he was a submariner who couldn't wait to get back to Canada and back on his submarine. Sergent Oleander was kind enough to answer some of my questions. I asked him why he didn't have a six-foot fence, why he didn't have armed guards, why he was standing alone (looking ever so handsome). It turns out that they were supposed to have all of those things, but it was too much work and so they decided to not allow civilians on their ships. He was friendly, I did not feel threatened speaking to him.

What I learned from my experience is that though I know I live under martial law, I do not like to be reminded of it. In my heart I know that guns are evil and deadly machines. I do not care who is holding them, I do not believe in the power of so few being held over so many. The army that is supposed to protect and serve is a machine that, if commanded, could easily slam bullets through my house. I do not like guns.

has gone peculiar

I am officially very tired of reading, editing, proofreading. My eyes stick on apostrophes and hover over commas: is that two independent clauses? or, have my hearts been captured by cheese?

The worst thing about spending so much time reading for errors is that I have a hard time turing the internal-editor off. I just read A Case History, by Kate Atkinson. (Which I highly recommend to those of you who enjoy excellent characterization, impeccable grammar, and a good mystery.) As I stuttered through the first chapters, I realized that all pleasure had been lost to my need to understand how and why the author composed her complex compound sentences. I put the book down and picked up my book of grammar exercises. After carefully diagraming the sentence I was surprised to see that she has linked two independent clauses cleverly with subordinate clauses using adverb clauses (damn!); but she didn't stop there, she tossed in some compound predicates for good measure. I remained uncertain about the meat of the sentence. I took the book and my chicken scratches to Doctor M, the grammar professor. He answered the remainder of my questions using yellow and green highlighters (green for independent clauses, yellow for subordinates). The beauty of grammar shines through and I can sleep again.

Trolling the internet, I read friends' blogs. How can I be both envious of their (self-inflated and hyperconscious) talent and yet celebrate in their (latent) mistakes? Is that a noun modifying a noun? I mark their errors, invalidating their attempts at writing. But the truth is that with a good editor they could make something of themselves, maybe. I know all of this, yet I want them to also know this: stop using the thesaurus, a noun is not an adjective and when you use it as such you look like you were reading the thesaurus (I know it, you know it, but do you know I know it?). I could be that editor, swap out the hyphens for em-dashes, replace those semicolons with a comma or two, clarify pronouns. But the truth is that most don't want an editor, don't think they need an editor; I protest! I pray! I insist that everyone do grammar exercises before their spare-tire sentences sink our Nation!

my soul was stoned by flamingos

I am supposed to buy a dress. Not just any dress mind you. This is a special bride's maid dress. My brother is getting married; I get an amazing sister-in-law and an okay dress. Well, I would get a dress if a non-specified store (j-crew) had not discontinued that ephemeral Rosebud Pink dress, style Emma. Now, I will be the bride's maid in Cotton-Candy Jane. Which just goes to show me that I will ever remain the younger sister (who puts things off until the last minute, [the wedding is a month away.] However, I am scouring ebay; do you think I would fit a size 12?). Yep, the same younger sister who has nervous breakdowns at her big brother's graduations, forgets birthdays and thinks christmas is a holiday in early February.

I am taking solace in a bottle of Basil Hayden and the fact that I have the gift all but picked out.

august

for there are those around me who say the things I least expect

I am shocked and saddened by this week's events; I am afraid that we, as living breathing human beings, are watching the fabric of humanity unravel. When America was ripped lovingly from those who had inhabited it, we did our best to stand apart from the oppression of the British Empire. We did fabulous things: a postal system; a constitution; a tertiary form of government.

Goodbye constitution, goodbye postal service, and well I never really believed in checks and balances anyways.

I have begun to consider how the history books will look in 200 years. Will there even be books in 200 years?

akimbo

as I consider the necessity of sleep over the powerful comfort of delirium

I have just wakened to the fact that I sleep, a lot. It is not uncommon for me to go to bed around ten and stay there till seven. This is not just because I am a lazy good for nothing. I often cannot fall asleep or waken to restlessness during the night.

Naps are wonderful. I can nap for upwards of two hours. I nap in the car, on the couch, in the library. I wish my school had a napping room. But this means I am again lazy and unproductive. In trying to justify my ten hour sleeping habits I have come to the conclusion that I must be dying of an anemic disfunction, leukemia, or chronic fatigue syndrome. If I had a doctor, I might go see her. (I am a student; Blue Cross is for people with income.)

In the meantime, I will try to stay out of bed longer. I will stay up until half-past ten, and get up earlier. If I am utterly exhausted by the time I hit the pillow, likely I will not lapse into repetitive thoughts. Sleep is a vicious cycle of catch-up, it is also one of the last (besides sex) free pass times in America.

By sleeping, I am saving voluble resources. I am not driving or eating. (At least, not until I get my prescription to ambien filled.) These productive hours are better filled watching tv, or searching the internet for sites which present live action all the time.

Goodbye naps,nine hour nights,long lucid dreams, free pass-times. Hello productive me.

annuity

the corn is in the kitchen and the hogs are in the barn

I have exactly 120 minutes left of school this term; and some four odd weeks until student loans flush my bank account. This spring break is one of long walks. I will take long walks to avoid the rising cost of gasoline, to deter boredom, and to improve my overall health and well-being.

I will not take walks to look at flowers or houses or sunrises— aesthetics are for people with leisure time. Observing the warming earth and the budding spring is not for a proleterian such as myself. Oh damn, I'm unemployed. I guess that means I am eligable to enjoy the present moment.

walls

i am so tired that my car looks like home

I get to this point when there are eight days left in the term and my mind quits. I string words together and listen as the coherent argument transforms into scripted jargon. This is an ongoing problem in my life. However, it is tiresome.

On a much brighter note, I swam so fast today that fish were jealous. I swim a fair bit— the rhythm of my three beat stroke the closest I come to meditation. The water parts for me, and if I don't fight it, I can jam. There have been days when the pool is an endless hell; my mind is satan who laughs as water splashes up my nose. Oh, I know satan. That shit talker who tells me to get out of the pool 18 laps into a mile; that bastard talks so much, I almost listen. But then where would I be? huddled in the shower sniveling like a quiter. I cowgirl up instead, and finish another 18 laps.

Other days it is effortless. Which is why I keep swimming. The days when my mind has accepted that for thirty minutes I am going to work like mad, and then have a sandwich. There are days when I try to whistle underwater. It doesn't work, but I still try. It is bliss, the water is cool and I pretend I am a mermaid (I whistle a little tune). Or, I pretend that I am a boat or an octopus. I doubt that I will see anyone about my overactive imagination. Instead, I will get a pet turtle.

ash

In which I am forced to reckon with more death

I am 26 and 11/12ths and death follows me. Not in a negative there is a shroud on my life sort of way— but a nice kind of everything I have ever loved I have lost, kind of way. Idesia, the horse I been riding for the last year, died on sunday.

So to the rest of you living breathing friends, please care for yourselves

three jazz standards and a nickle's worth of blues

For all of you who have ever needed an aspirin and had to ask a stranger

Driving down the highway at a brisk and legal 60 MPH, I noticed my temperature gauge creeping up uncomfortably fast. I had replaced my radiator in September: are radiators something like oil-changes which need to be changed quarterly?

I got to the barn and watched steam rise from under the hood. This was going from bad to worse; so I got my horse and ate an apple. Idesia is smarter than me and she told me that ignoring a wound only leads to scarring. I put her away and opened the hood. There are a lot of tubes and gears and wires under there. As a sophomore in High School I had wanted to take auto-mechanics. But my mother forbade me on the grounds that it was "dirty". Her socioeconomic gender limiting reaction led me to take a welding class; I have the innate skills of a seven-year old when it comes to the mystical workings of my car's secret operations. I digress, I am an adult and no longer blame my mother for everything.

On the left side of the engine there is bucket that is supposed to be filled with radiator fluid. I pop the top and it was as empty as an anorexic on prom night. Filling the reservoir with water, I decide to fake like I have radiator fluid all the home. Two miles out, my Taurus Wagon was blowing steam and with the needle creeping up into the red, I stop. The fluid had all but evaporated, again.

Taking my water bottles, I head to the Exxon bathroom. I am in gym pants and not feeling so hot, what with grease on my dirty hands. I fill the chamber and start the motor. I spot the culprit; it's a busted hose. I am elated to have diagnosed the malaise. The prognosis is grim as I don't have a degree from the MacGyver institute— in which case it wouldn't matter that I'm 25 miles from home with out a screwdriver. I chew my lip.

A guy drives up in a red mustang (no, really) and asks if I need help. I am not a feinting maiden. I know my odds. I accept his offer of a tool set. The hose has a dime sized hole an inch from the motor. He drives me to a Napa and they give us a piece of rubber tubing the length of my hand. Attaching the hose took two minutes. After thanking the generous stranger, I was on my way.

Yes, this real life adventure shows my skills of looking under the hood and spotting trouble. More, I am notorious for letting problems simmer until there is an explosion. But not this time.