the world may never know

mr. owl, how many pills have to be popped
to get the the bottom of a broken heart?

"one ... two ... three ... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ..."

show your teeth

someone told me i'm hard to read. isn't everyone? the simplest, most universal human gesture is the smile, but the sentiment isn't always clear. i recently spent a few minutes with someone very special to me, and that person smiled the entire time. later, it occurred to me that it was possibly an expression of surprise or nervousness (or fear?) -- not necessarily welcome and warmth.


i wonder how many smiles there are.


nervous smile
joyful smile
shy smile
relieved smile
laughter smile
pleasure smile
friendly smile
polite smile
sneaky smile
cheesy smile
fake smile
sexy smile
lying smile
daydream smile
loving smile
hopeful smile
embarrassed smile
comforting smile
knowing smile
aha! smile
flirty smile
vengeful smile
cruel smile




i think my favorite smile is the "good morning" smile. it's a slow, sweet, familiar smile given when you wake up next to someone you care about. that one goes a long way.


"a sunday smile" beirut
"i'll never smile again" frank sinatra

book again

i am very excited for this book to arrive. i can't believe this has been out of print since the 40s.

Excerpt: 'Portraits of a Marriage'

by Sandor Marai

 

Portraits of a Marriage
By Sandor Marai
Hardcover, 384 pages
Knopf
List Price: $27.95

Look, see that man? Wait! turn your head away, look at me, keep talking. I wouldn't like it if he glanced this way and spotted me; I don't want him to greet us. Now you can look again . . . The little squat one there in the fur-collared coat? No, of course not. It's the tall, pale-faced one in the black overcoat talking to that blond stick of a girl behind the counter. He is just having some candied orange peel wrapped. Strange, he never bought me candied orange peel.

What's that, dear? . . . Nothing. Wait, I have to blow my nose.

Has he gone? Tell me when he has gone.

He's paying now? . . . Can you see what his wallet looks like? Describe it carefully; I don't want to look that way. Is it brown crocodile skin? Yes? Oh, I'm so pleased.

Why am I pleased? Just because. Well, yes, of course, I gave him the wallet, for his birthday. Ten years ago. Was I in love with him? . . . That's a hard question, dear. Yes, I believe I did love him. Has he gone yet?

Good, I'm glad he's gone. Wait, I must powder my nose. Does it show that I have been crying? . . . It's stupid, I know, but see how stupid people can be? My heart still beats faster when I see him. Can I tell you who he is? I can tell you, darling, it's no secret. That man was my husband.

Come on, let's get some pistachio ice cream. I really can't understand why people say you can't eat ice cream in winter. I love this patisserie best in winter for the ice cream. There are times I almost believe that anything possible to be done should be done, not just because it's good or makes sense, simply because it's possible. For some years now in any case, ever since I've been alone, I've enjoyed coming here between five and seven in the winter. I like the crimson decor, the Victorian furnishings, the old waitresses, the big metropolitan square beyond the shop window, watching the customers arrive. There's a sort of warmth about it all, just a touch of fin-de-siecle. And there's no better tea anywhere, have you noticed? . . . I know the new generation of women don't go to patisseries. They prefer espressos, places where you have to rush, where there are no comfortable chairs, where it costs forty filler for one black coffee, where they can eat salad for lunch, that's how it is now. But it's not my world. What I want is refined patisseries like this, with such furniture, with crimson carpets, with their ancient countesses and princesses, their mirrored cupboards. As you may imagine, I'm not here every day, but I do call in during the winter and feel comfortable here. My husband and I used to meet here pretty regularly, about six o'clock, at teatime, after he finished at the office.

Oh yes, he was on his way home from the office just now. It's twenty after seven, his home time. I am familiar with every part of his routine, even now, as if it were his life I was living. At five minutes before six he rings for the office boy who brushes him down and presents him with his hat and coat, and he leaves the office, sending the car ahead so he can walk behind it and get some air. He doesn't do much walking, that's why he is so pale. Or there may be some other reason, I don't know now. I don't know the reason because I never see him, don't talk to him, haven't talked to him for three years. I don't like those prissy little separations where the two parties walk arm-in-arm from the court, dine together at that famous restaurant in the park, are tender and solicitous toward each other as if nothing had happened and then, after divorce and dinner, go their own ways. I'm not that sort of woman: my morality, my blood pressure won't allow it. I don't believe that men and women can be good friends after divorce. Marriage is marriage; divorce, divorce. That's what I think.

But what do you think? True, you've never been married.

I don't think that relationships people have entered on and nurtured for decades, vows they have unthinkingly kept, are empty formalities, you see. I believe in the sanctity of marriage. I think divorce is a kind of sacrilege. That's how I was brought up. But I believe it anyway, not just because of my upbringing, but because my religion demands that I believe it. I believe it because I am a woman and a divorce is no mere formality for me any more than the ritual in the church before the registrar is a formality: either it binds people together, body and soul, for once and for all, or it divides them, absolutely, and sends them their utterly separate ways. Not for one minute did I console myself with the thought that my husband and I would remain "friends" after our divorce. He was courteous, of course, and remained concerned for me, and generous too, as custom dictates that he should be. Not me, though. I was neither polite nor generous. I even took the piano, yes, as was my right. I was furious for revenge, and would happily have taken the whole house, right down to the curtains—everything. The moment we divorced I became his enemy and I remain so, as I will till the day I die. I don't want a friendly invitation to dinner at the restaurant in the park from him; I don't want to play the little woman, to be delicate, to be someone who visits her ex-husband's home and looks after things when the servant steals his linen. I wouldn't care if they stole the lot, everything, nor would I rush over to him if I heard he was ill. Why? Because we are divorced, you understand? It's not something to which one can become resigned.

Wait, I withdraw what I just said about him being ill. I wouldn't want him to fall ill. If he did I would visit him in the sanatorium. What are you laughing at? Are you laughing at me? Do you think I'm hoping he'll fall ill so I can visit him? Well, of course I hope that. As long as I have hope, I will carry on hoping. But I wouldn't want him to be too ill. He was so very pale, did you notice? . . . He has been pale like that for some years now.

I'll tell you everything. Have you got the time? Sadly, I have all too much.

Excerpted from Portraits of a Marriage by Sandor Marai. Copyright 2011 by Sandor Marai. Published by Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

great expectations

she saw a dark lump on the sidewalk leading to her apartment, and worried it was another dead cat. happily, she realized it was only her favorite brown sweater, which she had dropped there nine hours earlier. 

the concrete porch steps were cold and grey, as concrete is. she wasn't bothered by the chill because she knew that very soon she'd be wrapped up in him and his woolen coat. they both hoped he wouldn't have to wear it much longer. the muddy, thawing ground promised them that spring was coming.

they snuggled into each other the way teenagers do when the clock is ticking towards curfew. they both made honest efforts to make their short time count, but she knew that out of the ten minutes promised, she would only get eight. he always spent the last moments worrying about his wife. she couldn't imagine that a few minutes would hide his infidelity, but knew it was useless to try to bring him back to the present moment. 


she was lucky this time, almost. even after he said he was going, he held her and kissed her hair. he made soft, sweet sounds that she pretended were only for her ears. when he finally stood to go, her heart and mind were still in his embrace. she wasn't thinking of the two-minute rule, and how awful it could be.


"i wish we could spend our lives together," she murmured.


"yeah. which way to the highway again?"

maybe try another time

mostly, i write about love. always, i think of love. i hunt it, root it out, examine and dissect until it's unrecognizable.

why? i guess the default pop-psych answer would be that i can't believe i am loveable. it must be a trick, an illusion. really? maybe so.

can my loves remember when we did love? i almost can't. i can think of specific times when we were definitely happy and laughing, or maybe crying and holding, but i can't feel those moments anymore.

usually, i decide the love isn't love. i'm sick, or you're sick, or this is just plain wrong. i hide behind these labels because it's easier than ...

easier than what? revealing my rotten core? disappointing you? actively hurting you?

sure, i seem great at first. funny, friendly, warm. maybe attractive. intelligent in some undefinable way -- at least, i don't see the practical application. 

get just a little closer. i am afraid. i worry. i don't bring in the mail, or pay my rent even though i have the money. i telepathically tell my dog everyday that we'll have fun again sometime soon, just not today, please. 

accept those things, fine. take another leap. i need you. i hate you. i want you all over, around, and inside me, but then you need to get the fuck out. i don't trust you. you're the only one i can turn to. you're the first man to ever understand me. i cry.

i am proof that love at first sight is bullshit. 

yeah.

my dog and i like to dance to superchunk.

be mine

valentine's day should be celebrated with cake and candles so we can all make wishes that are sure to come true.

 

this song has been floating around in my brain for a few years, and i just remembered who sings it. yum.

"fail to mention" the gerbils

the biggest loser

someday, i will get what i deserve.

i love you because i need you.

i need you because i love you.

face value

people were always telling my mother what a beautiful daughter she had. she would plan for the grocery shopping to take twice as long as it should because so many people stopped to comment on the little brown girl in the basket. i was famous.

by second grade, i'd had my waist-length hair cut into an awful mullet (i know i asked for a bob!) and my adult teeth had begun to grow in crookedly.  i was a new kid in a hillbilly school, so my brownness was no longer exotic, just strange. i stopped existing.


the ideas of beauty and ugliness should be opposites. for me, they are close neighbors, separated by a very fine line. one look in the mirror, and my face is almond eyes, a noble nose, and a tiny rosebud mouth. a second glance reveals poisoned skin, yellow teeth, and a masculine chin. i don't even want to think about my cheeks. my perception mirrors the wicked queen in Snow White, shifting from the (al)most beautiful woman in the kingdom, to a haggard old woman.


i can't keep all this judgment for myself, can i? of course not. every woman i see is subject to a watered-down version of this criticism. 


i realized today that i have a new weapon to use against these women. i look at them and consider if their attractive faces would hold up under obesity. most of them wouldn't. this makes me feel better.


i know, it's sick. still, i doubt that i'm the only person to play these games.

"mission accomplished."

Rekha as Umrao Jaan

let's dance

i've only had one truly recurrent dream in my life. i don't have it anymore, but when i was in elementary school, it was a frequent nightmare.

i stand in the parking lot behind the school, looking towards the playground. suddenly, the world rushes towards my cheeks and sounds sneak up and crawl into my ears. i feel like i am experiencing everything. i enjoy the sensitivity, but am terrified. then things pull back, and i'm relaxed again. this sensation repeats several times before i wake.

it's difficult to describe, and was especially so as a nine year old.

intimacy is hard. getting close to someone is no problem; letting them get close to you can be excruciating. come here, go away. i hate you, don't leave me. we all do it. we are all afraid.

even so, we are all loved.

dynamic duo

animal househusbandry

my secret shame

the treehouse is doing a monthly night of folks covering classic albums. i like to imagine myself a musician, so finding my classic cover seemed like not an entirely pointless effort.

i spent some time sending the right songs to the right person. honestly, they were the worst possible choices! the first was good. i really should have left it at that. (no! really this time!) we had seen, but not heard, it on a saturday afternoon infomercial. 

i had planned to send a david bowie track after that because "moonage daydream" played on the way home. i couldn't find what i was looking for, so i thought i might send the t. rex song with the barely discernible persian reference. so lame. of course i sent it.

another t. rex song, which i had rejected moments before, suddenly appealed to me and revealed itself as the one true t. rex-ference. so, there. now that's two.

two songs from his favorite band. it's screaming, "hey, i'm thinking about you!" which i was, but so deeply that i didn't really know i was. obviously, i'm looking at songs to send him, but once i focus on the song itself, it becomes less about him. it honestly didn't cross my mind that it was an awkward choice.

would 3 be enough? of course not. as soon as i sent "jeepster," i realized i hadn't thought of myself much at all (too little, too late). 

somewhere in the 1990s, a comedian/rocker/writer told/sang/wrote a joke that made it very clear to my forming frontal lobes that phil collins is not cool. having been fully engaged in survival mode for several years, i immediately calculated the cost-benefit. i had to hate him, too.

i've been learning to embrace my tastes. i really like phil collins' songs. none of that pretentious "before peter gabriel left ..." bullshit. i mean, genesis as most of the fucking world knows it. 

my classic cover album is: Invisible Touch.

"land of confusion"