Tuesday, September 30, 2014
How we were when we were here before
I moved back to the city. My new apartment is smaller than the one we shared but it is in a nice neighborhood, you'll be glad to know. It is less cluttered than how we were. I have fewer furnishings. There are things I no longer require.
Friday, September 12, 2014
An Alternate Universe
The way you held my hand and led me into the party, the way you smiled at me as we danced together on the table, the way you pulled me close and the music was loud and we were surrounded by your friends. I knew it was too late for us then, but still - still, it was like this sudden glimpse into an alternate universe. A universe where I wouldn't have been afraid to touch your hand that night after we were together, or where I wouldn't have been afraid to wake you up in the morning to tell you I had to leave.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
The Edge of That Man's Affairs
Occasionally I returned to the edge of that man's affairs. The problem of his marriage had become clear to us immediately: she only knew how to depend on him and he had never learned to rely on her for anything. In his present state then - after he arrived where he arrived - she found herself at a loss for ways to be of assistance. All she knew how to do was to bake him cakes, which she did without fail every single week. And all he knew how to do in return was to eat them, the entire thing, in one sitting. He would cut off a slice and then stash the rest under his bed until he was done with what he had and then he would cut himself some more, promising with each additional bit that this would be his last for now until with some sense of desperate resignation he would realize he had finished the whole thing and now felt very sick. Each time one arrived he knew he should share it with those that were with him, and yet at the same time he knew he could not give any away because of what the cake represented to both of them: her love, her perfect love, which he could do nothing but consume.
Monday, April 28, 2014
new love stories
you pulled me onto the sand. i was drunk, and you were drunk, and you grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the sand. and you were wearing a dress, a black dress and a new black sweater, and they got all sandy, the dress and the sweater, and even your hair, but you just lay there like you didn't care at all.
i was so taken by you at that moment, i remember. all i could say was, you are so beautiful. and you said, please, i dated a writer before and did not care for it.
i was so taken by you at that moment, i remember. all i could say was, you are so beautiful. and you said, please, i dated a writer before and did not care for it.
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
The Adventures of Conor & Muffin and Other Exciting Stories
Meanwhile, Conor meets his friend Jesse for lunch at Panera. It is an old friend, from high school. Conor has driven a long way but he does not mind. He has nowhere to be in particular. His cat, Muffin, waits in the car with the windows cracked.
Jesse and Conor reconnect in a way Conor did not think was possible. They talk at length about their friendship in high school and the individual lives they have led since, the way their trajectories have diverged, the way they’ve changed for the better or worse. They bring up old jokes and lost loves. They laugh and sigh and remember.
When they are done eating, Jesse walks Conor out to his car and hugs him and says, what a wonderful lunch, you have become a reminder of what I once was and so I’d like this to be the last time we see one another. And then he walks away and Conor just stands there, staring at his cat through the car window, like, what can you say to that.
Jesse and Conor reconnect in a way Conor did not think was possible. They talk at length about their friendship in high school and the individual lives they have led since, the way their trajectories have diverged, the way they’ve changed for the better or worse. They bring up old jokes and lost loves. They laugh and sigh and remember.
When they are done eating, Jesse walks Conor out to his car and hugs him and says, what a wonderful lunch, you have become a reminder of what I once was and so I’d like this to be the last time we see one another. And then he walks away and Conor just stands there, staring at his cat through the car window, like, what can you say to that.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Your Middlebury Self
In the afternoon my ex-girlfriend Anna and I hike up the hill behind the art museum to the North of campus. At the top you can see the whole valley, which on this day in March looks muddy and gray.
“I have something to tell you,” she says. “I imagine it might be important to say. We broke up in September.”
We dated for two and a half years, and so I remember our break-up very clearly. We were outside the coffee shop. As she explained why the relationship was unsalvageable I had the familiar and troubling feeling that I was a few feet above myself watching it all unfold. All I could say was “Okay.” Then I went home and drew the curtains and lay down.
“Okay,” I say. “Yes. We broke up in September. I know.”
“I know you know,” she says, “I wasn’t done. I wanted to say that we broke up in September and now I’m seeing someone new. Eric. From our poetry class. You remember Eric?”
I remember Eric. His poetry was dark and beautiful. He always seemed very sad.
“Yes,” I say. “I remember Eric. He always seemed very sad.”
“Yes,” Anna says. “He did. And he is. He’s very sad. And I’m seeing him.”
I don’t really know what to say to this. I don’t say anything.
“Are you okay?” she says. “I never know with you.”
“Yes, I’m okay,” I say, because I guess I am. It is hard to know. I make a concerted effort to feel upset but all I can manage is a muted contempt for Eric’s poetry. I say, “He seems nice.”
She says, “Yes, maybe.” She does not look sure.
We stand there quietly. I think of whether or not to put my hands in my pockets. I think of the time we went to see the monochromes at the modern art museum and she said, what do you think, and I said, it’s a lot to take in – how bothered I was that I could only think of that to say.
“There was a hill like this at Middlebury,” Anna says after a minute. “At the program this summer we went up there after dinner all the time. Except it was closer to campus.”
“Yes, this was a bit of a hike,” I say. “But look at the view.”
“The view was better at Middlebury,” she says in an almost sudden way. Then after a pause, she adds, “Everything was better at Middlebury.”
I’ve never been to Middlebury. I didn’t even visit it. “Everything was better at Middlebury,” I repeat. I look at her blankly.
She looks back at me and says, “I mean, everything is better at Middlebury.”
“Everything is better,” I say. Am I agreeing, I wonder. Why can’t I know.
She says, “The food is better.”
I say, “The food.”
She says, “Yes, the food is better. And the dining halls are less crowded. And also the weather is better.”
“It’s farther North than here, though, isn’t it?” I try. “Isn’t it just as cold?”
She says, “Yes, but the cold is crisper. It is a more perfect cold.” She is pleased with this, I can tell. “At Middlebury,” she continues, “Everything is a more perfect version of what it is here.”
I say, “What about the people?” Maybe I am trying to joke.
“Ha, that’s funny,” she says, not smiling. “I like that. Like if Eric went to Middlebury he would not be so sad. Or if you went to Middlebury you would be more open.”
We are still looking at each other levelly. “I would be more open?” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “Your Middlebury self would be able to better communicate his emotions, I mean. That’s what I mean by open.”
This is where I turn away and look out over the valley again. “Okay,” I say.
I can feel her staring at me still. I can feel her about to say something terrible. “Ha,” she says again, which is a sure sign she is only pretending to be joking. “See? Your Middlebury self would have had some answers. Maybe if I could have dated him we would still be together.”
“Okay!” I say loudly. I realize I snapped. “Okay. Yes.” I say, and then without warning I am yelling again: “How can you say that? I worked, I really worked! I tried to be honest! I tried to share myself!”
“Right,” she says. “What you would share was, ‘I don’t know,’ or, ‘It’s hard to say.’”
“I didn’t know!” I say. “It was hard to say! I was confused and that was me being honest!” I realize how feeble this sounds. I find myself upset that I am even getting angry about this – about her.
She looks right at me. “If that’s true,” she says, “that’s even worse.”
And then she leaves. She just walks down the hill by herself, and I’m left standing there.
Without meaning to – hating myself for it – I suddenly find myself thinking about what my Middlebury self would do in this situation. What exacting thing he might call to her as she’s walking away from him; the way he might feel, precisely upset, precisely devastated. He would experience his emotions so presently, I’m sure of it. Instead I’m left wondering why my anger can only flare up now. Even now, watching her walk away, I feel it fading into the usual confused resignation. I imagine my Middlebury self might be able to cry about this. Instead I sit on a rock and say out loud as if to try to do so some regulation, “Okay.”
“I have something to tell you,” she says. “I imagine it might be important to say. We broke up in September.”
We dated for two and a half years, and so I remember our break-up very clearly. We were outside the coffee shop. As she explained why the relationship was unsalvageable I had the familiar and troubling feeling that I was a few feet above myself watching it all unfold. All I could say was “Okay.” Then I went home and drew the curtains and lay down.
“Okay,” I say. “Yes. We broke up in September. I know.”
“I know you know,” she says, “I wasn’t done. I wanted to say that we broke up in September and now I’m seeing someone new. Eric. From our poetry class. You remember Eric?”
I remember Eric. His poetry was dark and beautiful. He always seemed very sad.
“Yes,” I say. “I remember Eric. He always seemed very sad.”
“Yes,” Anna says. “He did. And he is. He’s very sad. And I’m seeing him.”
I don’t really know what to say to this. I don’t say anything.
“Are you okay?” she says. “I never know with you.”
“Yes, I’m okay,” I say, because I guess I am. It is hard to know. I make a concerted effort to feel upset but all I can manage is a muted contempt for Eric’s poetry. I say, “He seems nice.”
She says, “Yes, maybe.” She does not look sure.
We stand there quietly. I think of whether or not to put my hands in my pockets. I think of the time we went to see the monochromes at the modern art museum and she said, what do you think, and I said, it’s a lot to take in – how bothered I was that I could only think of that to say.
“There was a hill like this at Middlebury,” Anna says after a minute. “At the program this summer we went up there after dinner all the time. Except it was closer to campus.”
“Yes, this was a bit of a hike,” I say. “But look at the view.”
“The view was better at Middlebury,” she says in an almost sudden way. Then after a pause, she adds, “Everything was better at Middlebury.”
I’ve never been to Middlebury. I didn’t even visit it. “Everything was better at Middlebury,” I repeat. I look at her blankly.
She looks back at me and says, “I mean, everything is better at Middlebury.”
“Everything is better,” I say. Am I agreeing, I wonder. Why can’t I know.
She says, “The food is better.”
I say, “The food.”
She says, “Yes, the food is better. And the dining halls are less crowded. And also the weather is better.”
“It’s farther North than here, though, isn’t it?” I try. “Isn’t it just as cold?”
She says, “Yes, but the cold is crisper. It is a more perfect cold.” She is pleased with this, I can tell. “At Middlebury,” she continues, “Everything is a more perfect version of what it is here.”
I say, “What about the people?” Maybe I am trying to joke.
“Ha, that’s funny,” she says, not smiling. “I like that. Like if Eric went to Middlebury he would not be so sad. Or if you went to Middlebury you would be more open.”
We are still looking at each other levelly. “I would be more open?” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “Your Middlebury self would be able to better communicate his emotions, I mean. That’s what I mean by open.”
This is where I turn away and look out over the valley again. “Okay,” I say.
I can feel her staring at me still. I can feel her about to say something terrible. “Ha,” she says again, which is a sure sign she is only pretending to be joking. “See? Your Middlebury self would have had some answers. Maybe if I could have dated him we would still be together.”
“Okay!” I say loudly. I realize I snapped. “Okay. Yes.” I say, and then without warning I am yelling again: “How can you say that? I worked, I really worked! I tried to be honest! I tried to share myself!”
“Right,” she says. “What you would share was, ‘I don’t know,’ or, ‘It’s hard to say.’”
“I didn’t know!” I say. “It was hard to say! I was confused and that was me being honest!” I realize how feeble this sounds. I find myself upset that I am even getting angry about this – about her.
She looks right at me. “If that’s true,” she says, “that’s even worse.”
And then she leaves. She just walks down the hill by herself, and I’m left standing there.
Without meaning to – hating myself for it – I suddenly find myself thinking about what my Middlebury self would do in this situation. What exacting thing he might call to her as she’s walking away from him; the way he might feel, precisely upset, precisely devastated. He would experience his emotions so presently, I’m sure of it. Instead I’m left wondering why my anger can only flare up now. Even now, watching her walk away, I feel it fading into the usual confused resignation. I imagine my Middlebury self might be able to cry about this. Instead I sit on a rock and say out loud as if to try to do so some regulation, “Okay.”
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
On The Night Before (Revised)
On the night before I had to leave, an angel visited us in the darkness. We were crying in your bed, I remember so distinctly, just holding each other and crying. It was all over and we knew it, and then this angel descended from heaven and spoke to us. You made one another so happy, it said in its golden lilting voice. Your love was as perfect as it could have been, and for that you should not weep, and you said tearfully, don't you think we know that.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
To Be Transformed
It is morning and there has been a blizzard. The house is empty. I wander from room to room in boxers and socks. The power has gone out and the light from outside is clean and pure. The empty street has become a perfect gleaming version of itself. I stand very still and watch it through the front window.
Last night when we got stoned you showed me your poetry and I was overcome. It is so wonderful, I said tearfully, and as you touched the back of my neck softly I realized what I meant was, this is a part of your life that is so separate from myself. I will never captivate you fully.
I put on sweatpants and boots and walk outside with no shirt on. The snow is so deep I can climb up to the roof of the little beige shed in the side yard. I stand out there for some time, looking at my neighborhood from nine feet higher than usual. The cold is biting and fresh and feels just right, maybe. I'd like this moment to mean something. I'd like this to be beautiful. I'd like to be transformed.
Last night when we got stoned you showed me your poetry and I was overcome. It is so wonderful, I said tearfully, and as you touched the back of my neck softly I realized what I meant was, this is a part of your life that is so separate from myself. I will never captivate you fully.
I put on sweatpants and boots and walk outside with no shirt on. The snow is so deep I can climb up to the roof of the little beige shed in the side yard. I stand out there for some time, looking at my neighborhood from nine feet higher than usual. The cold is biting and fresh and feels just right, maybe. I'd like this moment to mean something. I'd like this to be beautiful. I'd like to be transformed.
Sunday, December 01, 2013
SAM AUSTIN IS UP LATE WORRYING ABOUT HIS NAGGING ANKLE INJURY
ANKLE
I am confused about feeling sore.
SAM
Yes I know.
ANKLE
Sometimes running hurts me.
SAM
Yes.
ANKLE
And other times it doesn’t.
SAM
I know.
ANKLE
Sometimes it hurts to lift weights but not always.
SAM
I know. Yes.
ANKLE
Sometimes sitting too long hurts but other times it makes me feel better. Other times a brace can help but then later it just makes things worse.
SAM
I know all of this.
ANKLE
I wish I were a master assassin’s ankle.
SAM
Yes I kno- what?
ANKLE
If I were the ankle of a master assassin I would never hurt. I would always be fine.
SAM
What? How is that- why?
ANKLE
Because we would always do sweet stuff together. Master assassin stuff. I would climb up sweet walls and help him steady his aim so he could shoot poison crossbow darts.
SAM
That would not help. You would just hurt more. That would be very strenuous.
ANKLE
I would help him run away from the police after he commits and artfully staged and flawlessly executed hit on an evil foreign diplomat.
SAM
You seem to be losing sight of the problem at hand. Or at foot.
An uncomfortable beat.
ANKLE
You are unfunny and rarely commit planned murders. At best your murders are uncreative and spur of the moment.
SAM
What do you mean. I’ve never committed murder.
ANKLE
Don’t remind me.
I am confused about feeling sore.
SAM
Yes I know.
ANKLE
Sometimes running hurts me.
SAM
Yes.
ANKLE
And other times it doesn’t.
SAM
I know.
ANKLE
Sometimes it hurts to lift weights but not always.
SAM
I know. Yes.
ANKLE
Sometimes sitting too long hurts but other times it makes me feel better. Other times a brace can help but then later it just makes things worse.
SAM
I know all of this.
ANKLE
I wish I were a master assassin’s ankle.
SAM
Yes I kno- what?
ANKLE
If I were the ankle of a master assassin I would never hurt. I would always be fine.
SAM
What? How is that- why?
ANKLE
Because we would always do sweet stuff together. Master assassin stuff. I would climb up sweet walls and help him steady his aim so he could shoot poison crossbow darts.
SAM
That would not help. You would just hurt more. That would be very strenuous.
ANKLE
I would help him run away from the police after he commits and artfully staged and flawlessly executed hit on an evil foreign diplomat.
SAM
You seem to be losing sight of the problem at hand. Or at foot.
An uncomfortable beat.
ANKLE
You are unfunny and rarely commit planned murders. At best your murders are uncreative and spur of the moment.
SAM
What do you mean. I’ve never committed murder.
ANKLE
Don’t remind me.
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
The Unending Sadness of Intersecting Lines
The story that follows, "The Unending Sadness of Intersecting Lines," was written for a fiction workshop as a structural imitation of Yiyun Li's short story "Gold Boy, Emerald Girl", which, like my story, features a style of third-person narration that is alternatively close with one character and then with another.
The conceit of the story - that is, the idea of two people floating through the void after the end of the universe - is based on the third section of a poem I wrote in April 2013 called "THREE LOVE POEMS FOR ALYSSA". In that poem, a narrator is floating in post-universe space and sees in the distance a love interest heading towards him. "The Unending Sadness of Intersecting Lines" makes this conceit a bit more present: two people ARE meeting up in the void and have only a moment to decide whether to grab onto one another.
I guess the reason I make this point is that a lot of people have compared the story to the recent film Gravity. For what it's worth what follows was conceived before and is accordingly not inspired by or based on that movie.
****
Granted immortality due to a spiritual mishap at his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah, Tim floated aimlessly in the void after the heat death of the universe for a hundred trillion years and then encountered a beautiful woman.
The only thing he had crossed paths with before was a little chunk of quartz but it had fallen out of his pocket. It had been his prize possession, and when he awoke one morning to see it was just out of arm’s reach, he could only watch with some dismay as it floated away on a slightly different trajectory. He had lost sight of it maybe a billion years back.
“Hey there!” he said to the woman, and then cleared his throat. His voice sounded creaky with disuse. “I’m Tim! Hello!” He suddenly got nervous he was coming on too strong. “I’m Tim,” he said, more quietly.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Susan.” Susan could see that she was a bit older than Tim, who was maybe only in his early twenties. She regarded him with a kind of sad curiosity. She had not seen another human since she and Anders had broken up only few millennia after the universe ended. The two had met while she was in Sweden for a conference and he had promised her eternal life one night while they made love at his summer home. She did not think much of it until she fell off a cliff while skiing and climbed out unscathed. As it turned out he was a direct descendent of an ancient Norse deity.
Susan and Anders had spent the rest of the universe together – she was at the time convinced she loved him but lately was wondering if she had only stayed with him to avoid getting into anything committed with someone else who was just going to end up dying. Even after the universe ended they had lashed themselves together with rope so they would not ever drift apart, or at least not until after only a few million years of floating she woke up suddenly consumed by panicky feelings of being trapped in the relationship. That night she untied them while he slept.
He cried when he realized what had happened. “How could you do this?” he choked out in his heavy Scandinavian accent. “I loved you so truly. I only wanted to make you happy.”
“I’m sorry, Anders,” she said, watching him float a little further away. “It’s not you. I just- I need some space right now.”
After a few days she realized she should have pushed him harder after she undid the knots. They were still fairly close. Every now and then he would call things to her matter-of-factly like “You are a thoughtless bitch,” or “You deserve to be alone.” She had to see him every day for a year and a half before he was finally out of sight. It reminded her unpleasantly of when she had broken up with James, her sophomore year boyfriend at their small liberal arts college, for roughly the same reason.
“What were you so afraid of?” James had asked her once after at one of the thousand parties at which they kept running into each other. Susan, drunk and tearful, found she didn’t have an answer.
“Susan,” Tim interrupted her thinking. He was trying to calculate. “I think,” he began, and then coughed. “I think we might get close enough to grab one other. I think if you reach out, and I reach out, I think we could maybe grab hold of each other’s hands.” He knew he should really only be considering the prospect of having some company, but he was having trouble not thinking about how pretty she was and how he had never worked up the courage to kiss a girl, even during his billion years of life, even when Maia Heyworth had been making such lengthy eye contact with him at the senior prom.
What Susan said next was a glum and drawn-out, “Well,” and then suddenly they were too far apart. The moment had passed.
And then there they were, just specks floating in an endless empty universe, destined never to encounter anyone or anything more until the end of time. All that was left for the two of them were questions, then: questions like could it have worked out with him and how in that moment did she decide it was not even worth a shot, questions like could he have just reached out and grabbed her shoe, questions like had they both made a terrible mistake. These questions occurred to them as they gradually lost sight of each other. They came to realize quickly that at least they would have an eternity of solitude to consider the answers.
The conceit of the story - that is, the idea of two people floating through the void after the end of the universe - is based on the third section of a poem I wrote in April 2013 called "THREE LOVE POEMS FOR ALYSSA". In that poem, a narrator is floating in post-universe space and sees in the distance a love interest heading towards him. "The Unending Sadness of Intersecting Lines" makes this conceit a bit more present: two people ARE meeting up in the void and have only a moment to decide whether to grab onto one another.
I guess the reason I make this point is that a lot of people have compared the story to the recent film Gravity. For what it's worth what follows was conceived before and is accordingly not inspired by or based on that movie.
****
Granted immortality due to a spiritual mishap at his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah, Tim floated aimlessly in the void after the heat death of the universe for a hundred trillion years and then encountered a beautiful woman.
The only thing he had crossed paths with before was a little chunk of quartz but it had fallen out of his pocket. It had been his prize possession, and when he awoke one morning to see it was just out of arm’s reach, he could only watch with some dismay as it floated away on a slightly different trajectory. He had lost sight of it maybe a billion years back.
“Hey there!” he said to the woman, and then cleared his throat. His voice sounded creaky with disuse. “I’m Tim! Hello!” He suddenly got nervous he was coming on too strong. “I’m Tim,” he said, more quietly.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Susan.” Susan could see that she was a bit older than Tim, who was maybe only in his early twenties. She regarded him with a kind of sad curiosity. She had not seen another human since she and Anders had broken up only few millennia after the universe ended. The two had met while she was in Sweden for a conference and he had promised her eternal life one night while they made love at his summer home. She did not think much of it until she fell off a cliff while skiing and climbed out unscathed. As it turned out he was a direct descendent of an ancient Norse deity.
Susan and Anders had spent the rest of the universe together – she was at the time convinced she loved him but lately was wondering if she had only stayed with him to avoid getting into anything committed with someone else who was just going to end up dying. Even after the universe ended they had lashed themselves together with rope so they would not ever drift apart, or at least not until after only a few million years of floating she woke up suddenly consumed by panicky feelings of being trapped in the relationship. That night she untied them while he slept.
He cried when he realized what had happened. “How could you do this?” he choked out in his heavy Scandinavian accent. “I loved you so truly. I only wanted to make you happy.”
“I’m sorry, Anders,” she said, watching him float a little further away. “It’s not you. I just- I need some space right now.”
After a few days she realized she should have pushed him harder after she undid the knots. They were still fairly close. Every now and then he would call things to her matter-of-factly like “You are a thoughtless bitch,” or “You deserve to be alone.” She had to see him every day for a year and a half before he was finally out of sight. It reminded her unpleasantly of when she had broken up with James, her sophomore year boyfriend at their small liberal arts college, for roughly the same reason.
“What were you so afraid of?” James had asked her once after at one of the thousand parties at which they kept running into each other. Susan, drunk and tearful, found she didn’t have an answer.
“Susan,” Tim interrupted her thinking. He was trying to calculate. “I think,” he began, and then coughed. “I think we might get close enough to grab one other. I think if you reach out, and I reach out, I think we could maybe grab hold of each other’s hands.” He knew he should really only be considering the prospect of having some company, but he was having trouble not thinking about how pretty she was and how he had never worked up the courage to kiss a girl, even during his billion years of life, even when Maia Heyworth had been making such lengthy eye contact with him at the senior prom.
What Susan said next was a glum and drawn-out, “Well,” and then suddenly they were too far apart. The moment had passed.
And then there they were, just specks floating in an endless empty universe, destined never to encounter anyone or anything more until the end of time. All that was left for the two of them were questions, then: questions like could it have worked out with him and how in that moment did she decide it was not even worth a shot, questions like could he have just reached out and grabbed her shoe, questions like had they both made a terrible mistake. These questions occurred to them as they gradually lost sight of each other. They came to realize quickly that at least they would have an eternity of solitude to consider the answers.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Short Presentation
SAM, nine, is lit center stage. SAM is quite short. He holds a piece of paper. He is quite nervous and his way of speaking makes it clear he is reading from the paper, pausing at awkward times or running together sentences.
SAM
This is my report on what I want to be when I grow up and the challenges I might face. When I grow up I want to be tall. I will be six-foot-five-inches, and when people meet me they will say things like, “wow you are tall, how is the weather up there.” Sometimes I will even hit my head on things because they are low to the ground, or else I will have to duck when I walk up stairs in people’s basements. Sometimes I will play pick-up basketball and I will be okay at it and no one will say, “Sam you are too short to ever be good at sports, just go home.” When I visit my parents for Thanksgiving my mom will ask me to get cans of cranberry sauce from the top shelf for her and I will not have to stand on a chair, and afterwards my mom will hug me and tell me she loves me and my sister the same amount even if my sister is pretty and good at sports and I have early onset backne.
SAM pauses then continues.
SAM
One challenge I might face when I grow up to be tall is that I will lose all my friends. It will be sad. I will be too tall for them, and it will make me sad to lose them as friends but I will be tall and they will be short so what can you do. I will make new taller friends, and we will all play pick-up basketball together, and they will say, “Sam, you are so tall and handsome and the way you only listen to soundtracks from anime is cool.” And I will say, “yes, we are all tall and we all love anime soundtracks.” And they will say, “That is true. Let’s go to Dave & Busters for dinner.” And after that we will go to Dave & Busters for dinner and Eva, the girl that I like from Ms. Valnetto’s class, will be there. She will be grown up too, and she will say, “it is okay that you spilled popcorn butter on me at Maia’s birthday party, I did not mean those things I yelled at you about how ugly and weird and short you were.” I will shrug it off and ask if she wants to watch me play skee-ball, and she will say, “okay,” and I will be tall enough to put the ball right into the hundred hole, and with all the points I win I will get two stuffed animals that are Mr. Resetti from the Wii game Animal Crossing, and I will give one to her, and she will kiss my cheek. That was my report on what I want to be when I grow up and the challenges I might face.
SAM
This is my report on what I want to be when I grow up and the challenges I might face. When I grow up I want to be tall. I will be six-foot-five-inches, and when people meet me they will say things like, “wow you are tall, how is the weather up there.” Sometimes I will even hit my head on things because they are low to the ground, or else I will have to duck when I walk up stairs in people’s basements. Sometimes I will play pick-up basketball and I will be okay at it and no one will say, “Sam you are too short to ever be good at sports, just go home.” When I visit my parents for Thanksgiving my mom will ask me to get cans of cranberry sauce from the top shelf for her and I will not have to stand on a chair, and afterwards my mom will hug me and tell me she loves me and my sister the same amount even if my sister is pretty and good at sports and I have early onset backne.
SAM pauses then continues.
SAM
One challenge I might face when I grow up to be tall is that I will lose all my friends. It will be sad. I will be too tall for them, and it will make me sad to lose them as friends but I will be tall and they will be short so what can you do. I will make new taller friends, and we will all play pick-up basketball together, and they will say, “Sam, you are so tall and handsome and the way you only listen to soundtracks from anime is cool.” And I will say, “yes, we are all tall and we all love anime soundtracks.” And they will say, “That is true. Let’s go to Dave & Busters for dinner.” And after that we will go to Dave & Busters for dinner and Eva, the girl that I like from Ms. Valnetto’s class, will be there. She will be grown up too, and she will say, “it is okay that you spilled popcorn butter on me at Maia’s birthday party, I did not mean those things I yelled at you about how ugly and weird and short you were.” I will shrug it off and ask if she wants to watch me play skee-ball, and she will say, “okay,” and I will be tall enough to put the ball right into the hundred hole, and with all the points I win I will get two stuffed animals that are Mr. Resetti from the Wii game Animal Crossing, and I will give one to her, and she will kiss my cheek. That was my report on what I want to be when I grow up and the challenges I might face.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Investigation Reveals Fatal Error in 2006 Mission Quinoa Order
MISSION PARK - A recent investigation at Mission Dining Hall revealed an error in an old order for quinoa, the Mexican grain known for being rich in protein and fiber. Investigators report that the mistake in the order - placed in October 2006 - resulted in a surplus quantity of quinoa in the magnitude of ten thousand. This slip-up proved fatal when the quinoa, delivered too quickly, ended up crushing a Mission chef.
"We were hearing a lot about quinoa," a dining hall source reports, "so we thought we'd try to order some for a dinner to see how people liked it. Well someone must have typed a bunch of extra zeroes because we ended up ordering like five truck fulls of the stuff. We were knee deep in quinoa for a week. One of the chefs drowned."
Investigation revealed that the surplus quinoa was eventually stored in empty singles in Dennett Basement and has been served ever since.
"Sometimes students come in joking and acting surprised about the quinoa," the source said. "For me, it's no joke. I still have nightmares."
"We were hearing a lot about quinoa," a dining hall source reports, "so we thought we'd try to order some for a dinner to see how people liked it. Well someone must have typed a bunch of extra zeroes because we ended up ordering like five truck fulls of the stuff. We were knee deep in quinoa for a week. One of the chefs drowned."
Investigation revealed that the surplus quinoa was eventually stored in empty singles in Dennett Basement and has been served ever since.
"Sometimes students come in joking and acting surprised about the quinoa," the source said. "For me, it's no joke. I still have nightmares."
Sunday, August 25, 2013
GHOST STORIES
0.
After there are rumors of ghosts in the canoe shed by the lake, my best friend and I sit on the dock on a night with no moon. I say to him, I do not believe in ghosts, and he says, neither do I, except for here.
1.
At the end, my best friend stumbles into the woods with his best friend (a young woman) and they have tearful sex. She loves him and he does not love her but he says anyway, I love you, because he has had too much to drink and because in that moment it seems easier and maybe even as exacting as what he really means. Except now she has ghosts of her own to deal with.
2.
I sit in the parking lot drinking with a different friend, one from high school. I say, man, what a summer, and he says, you have become a reminder of what I once was and so I'd like this to be the last time we see one another.
3.
In the morning I wake up on the shore with a monster headache and a gritty mouthful of sand, and Stephen, a maintenance guy who has been here forever, is pulling up lane lines at the end of the dock in the yellow morning sun. He has gray hair and a heavy Maine accent, and when I ask him if he believes in ghosts he just spits into the lake and says, I guess I do.
After there are rumors of ghosts in the canoe shed by the lake, my best friend and I sit on the dock on a night with no moon. I say to him, I do not believe in ghosts, and he says, neither do I, except for here.
1.
At the end, my best friend stumbles into the woods with his best friend (a young woman) and they have tearful sex. She loves him and he does not love her but he says anyway, I love you, because he has had too much to drink and because in that moment it seems easier and maybe even as exacting as what he really means. Except now she has ghosts of her own to deal with.
2.
I sit in the parking lot drinking with a different friend, one from high school. I say, man, what a summer, and he says, you have become a reminder of what I once was and so I'd like this to be the last time we see one another.
3.
In the morning I wake up on the shore with a monster headache and a gritty mouthful of sand, and Stephen, a maintenance guy who has been here forever, is pulling up lane lines at the end of the dock in the yellow morning sun. He has gray hair and a heavy Maine accent, and when I ask him if he believes in ghosts he just spits into the lake and says, I guess I do.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
The Collector
You find a Hawaii quarter in the parking lot
outside your job and decide to collect every state.
You start by only sorting through the change
you get each day, but before long
you’re at the bank trading in twenties
and hundreds, spending afternoons and weekends
pawing through grimy tupperwares full of coins
and wading around in fountains
at the mall. You call your friends and tell them
to be on the constant lookout out for Idaho and the Dakotas.
Your wife leaves you, your daughters
break off all contact, you quit your job
and sell your clothes and start holding up coffee shops
for their tip jars.
outside your job and decide to collect every state.
You start by only sorting through the change
you get each day, but before long
you’re at the bank trading in twenties
and hundreds, spending afternoons and weekends
pawing through grimy tupperwares full of coins
and wading around in fountains
at the mall. You call your friends and tell them
to be on the constant lookout out for Idaho and the Dakotas.
Your wife leaves you, your daughters
break off all contact, you quit your job
and sell your clothes and start holding up coffee shops
for their tip jars.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
THREE LOVE POEMS FOR ALYSSA
1.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN ENGLISH CLASS
I will write a love poem for you, Alyssa,
dark-haired girl
who sits across from me in Comparative Literature,
one that will appeal to your English major sensibilities,
one that explores your adorable quirks I notice during class
that endear you to me in a way you will find loveable
and not creepy.
I will write,
Alyssa, I like the way you nervously chew
on the drawstring of your favorite maroon hoodie,
I like the way you sit low in your chair
with your fingers on the front of your throat,
and I like the way you read passages of Jane Eyre
aloud in class, slow and soft –
“how strange it was that I could not unlove you
merely because you had ceased to be near me” –
as if the words are your own
and you are sharing them with me as we walk
through the snow back from our first date
during which we discussed such subjects as
women in 19th-century literature
and the fleeting beauty of weather and nectarines.
2.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD
Last night in the cold
on the balcony in the lodge,
I considered how beautiful you looked
as you picked off the zombies
attempting to claw their way
through our makeshift barriers.
And as you efficiently dispatched the horde,
as our fingers occasionally brushed tips
when I handed you ammunition,
I thought about saying, “how wonderful and terrible
it is that we found each other here, after the world’s end,”
but for fear of distracting you I did not,
and instead admired briefly the moon
shining through the broken windows
and illuminating with pale and delicate light
the maroon hood pulled low
over your eyes,
and your singular way
of handling a firearm,
so darkly,
and with such precision.
3.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN THE VACUUM OF SPACE
Finally,
I float aimlessly in the void
after the heat death of the universe
and find that, after a hundred trillion years,
I cannot unlove you.
It is very dark.
Except today
I spot a speck on the edge of the infinite horizon –
one that might be getting closer
and that is the same color
as your favorite sweatshirt.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN ENGLISH CLASS
I will write a love poem for you, Alyssa,
dark-haired girl
who sits across from me in Comparative Literature,
one that will appeal to your English major sensibilities,
one that explores your adorable quirks I notice during class
that endear you to me in a way you will find loveable
and not creepy.
I will write,
Alyssa, I like the way you nervously chew
on the drawstring of your favorite maroon hoodie,
I like the way you sit low in your chair
with your fingers on the front of your throat,
and I like the way you read passages of Jane Eyre
aloud in class, slow and soft –
“how strange it was that I could not unlove you
merely because you had ceased to be near me” –
as if the words are your own
and you are sharing them with me as we walk
through the snow back from our first date
during which we discussed such subjects as
women in 19th-century literature
and the fleeting beauty of weather and nectarines.
2.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD
Last night in the cold
on the balcony in the lodge,
I considered how beautiful you looked
as you picked off the zombies
attempting to claw their way
through our makeshift barriers.
And as you efficiently dispatched the horde,
as our fingers occasionally brushed tips
when I handed you ammunition,
I thought about saying, “how wonderful and terrible
it is that we found each other here, after the world’s end,”
but for fear of distracting you I did not,
and instead admired briefly the moon
shining through the broken windows
and illuminating with pale and delicate light
the maroon hood pulled low
over your eyes,
and your singular way
of handling a firearm,
so darkly,
and with such precision.
3.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN THE VACUUM OF SPACE
Finally,
I float aimlessly in the void
after the heat death of the universe
and find that, after a hundred trillion years,
I cannot unlove you.
It is very dark.
Except today
I spot a speck on the edge of the infinite horizon –
one that might be getting closer
and that is the same color
as your favorite sweatshirt.
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