They love each other. Sam’s big. Lucy’s small. They’re inseparable. When we all take a walk together, she scoots around underneath his belly. He’s always careful not step on her. He weighs 100 pounds. She’s ten pounds.
They eat together. First one bowl then another. Each one politely letting the other get a bite. No pushing. Lucy claimed the job of telling us when the water bowl is empty. She stands in it and tries to scoot it around the kitchen floor. She gets a treat for her hard work. Sam watches on fondly, like a doting uncle spoiling his young niece on the first day of summer with a mint chip ice cream cone.
Last Fall Lucy was seven months old when we brought her home to meet Sam. As soon as we came into the room, he quietly lowered his body and stretched out on the floor. His massive brown head between his white paws, he was at her eye level. Lucy immediately bounded over to him. Sam didn’t move a muscle as she checked him out, carefully licking both of his black-tipped ears. Then Lucy did that puppy-squeal thing and leapt up in the air when she spotted a tennis ball across the room. She fell over herself as she raced to get the ball. She dropped it on the floor in front of Sam. She made us all laugh. Sam too.
Sam’s old, almost 14. That’s really ancient for a big dog. We love him so much. We all worry about his getting old and dying. We worry about Lucy. She’ll miss him terribly. I can’t tell her what’s around the corner. If I could make her understand, how could she prepare herself? Would she put up all sorts of defenses? Distance herself so it won’t hurt so much? Back off and love him less?
Friday, June 11, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Bubbling Over - Kate Bueler
Bubbling over. The bubbling over out of the champagne bottle is my favorite. As you try to open it-it sometimes takes a while then it does open and all the tiny bubbles drift, push, zig zag to the surface of the lake of love. The bottle of champagne as I open in among my roommates- come on Kate open it- you can do it- it’s taking longer than usual. Usual. So I keep trying until. That welcomed pop bursting your ears into the celebration of drinkable fireworks. And then the bubbling over. The bubbling over into the cup or my mouth or their mouths or on my hands. I love the sweetness of the bubbling over- the mistake so perfectly spilled tastes so good as the bubbles dissipate along your tongue, your mouth. You lick each one of your hands.
I was once reprimanded on New Years. Don’t touch me. He said. Don’t touch me with those champagne hands. It was midnight. We were surrounded by kisses and love and excitement bubbling over around us, fireworks of new beginnings of too much champagne or other recreational freedom. We stood in a line me, him, my best friend, and his old friend. His friend said what the fuck. What the fuck about what he said to me. And then kissed my best friend. In my excitement in my bubbling over-I smacked my lover on the lips and walked away. No one was going to stop me from bubbling over. No one ever has.
I want a man who wants me to touch him, him with or without champagne hands. I want a man that will let me touch him, no matter what has bubbled over on my hands. I want a man who wouldn’t mind if I spilt some of the champagne on him just for fun. This is what I thought. But said nothing. Instead I took up smoking again and drank champagne from the bottle and went to the store to get more tecate. That we hid upstairs in the bathroom-overly done modernly with the proper title of aquamarine and tub with jets and the cabinets just opaque enough is where we hid our beers. Bubbling over, bubbling over, I poured down my familiar escape down my throat again. He kept bringing people upstairs to blow lines. Lines of their celebration. Bubbling over into, into what the truth might be. Might be. I just kept drinking and smiling and looking pretty. Around the room, the house I had helped clean and decorate the balloons glistened and reminded me of the helium we had all sucked down earlier. Hello in a high pitch voice and the laughter. The bubbling over it was all bubbling over. Over it was. Or so I thought. So I thought. Because in the midst of champagne and tecate for her and alcohol and cocaine for him- I just wanted someone to touch and hold. He just wanted to escape. Escaped with both did. Did. Me as a drunk. Him as a drunk and cokehead. It all bubbled over that night. That night it did.
I was once reprimanded on New Years. Don’t touch me. He said. Don’t touch me with those champagne hands. It was midnight. We were surrounded by kisses and love and excitement bubbling over around us, fireworks of new beginnings of too much champagne or other recreational freedom. We stood in a line me, him, my best friend, and his old friend. His friend said what the fuck. What the fuck about what he said to me. And then kissed my best friend. In my excitement in my bubbling over-I smacked my lover on the lips and walked away. No one was going to stop me from bubbling over. No one ever has.
I want a man who wants me to touch him, him with or without champagne hands. I want a man that will let me touch him, no matter what has bubbled over on my hands. I want a man who wouldn’t mind if I spilt some of the champagne on him just for fun. This is what I thought. But said nothing. Instead I took up smoking again and drank champagne from the bottle and went to the store to get more tecate. That we hid upstairs in the bathroom-overly done modernly with the proper title of aquamarine and tub with jets and the cabinets just opaque enough is where we hid our beers. Bubbling over, bubbling over, I poured down my familiar escape down my throat again. He kept bringing people upstairs to blow lines. Lines of their celebration. Bubbling over into, into what the truth might be. Might be. I just kept drinking and smiling and looking pretty. Around the room, the house I had helped clean and decorate the balloons glistened and reminded me of the helium we had all sucked down earlier. Hello in a high pitch voice and the laughter. The bubbling over it was all bubbling over. Over it was. Or so I thought. So I thought. Because in the midst of champagne and tecate for her and alcohol and cocaine for him- I just wanted someone to touch and hold. He just wanted to escape. Escaped with both did. Did. Me as a drunk. Him as a drunk and cokehead. It all bubbled over that night. That night it did.
Bubbling Over - Judy Albietz
Lily’s lungs screamed for air. Her heart almost pounded out of her chest with fear. She had to survive. She had to break free of whatever was sucking her down. She only had a little time left. Willing all her strength into her numb arms and legs, she pulled and kicked as hard as she could. She looked up. It worked! She propelled herself upwards. She felt a thrill as she saw the surface coming toward her.
Her victory was short-lived. Just as she was about to reach the air above her, suction grabbed her again. She fought back. Frantically, she thrashed her arms to pull free. She was jerked back down—even deeper into the murky water. Defeated, she clutched at the pain in her chest as her lungs ached for good air. They wanted to breathe in something, even if it was water. It was so very quiet. All she could hear was her own panic dashing about in her head.
Lily knew this was it. She couldn’t last much longer. Her thoughts slowed. The liquid background noise was almost pleasant as it hummed in her ears. The water around her changed from murky green to clear blue. Thousands of air bubbles appeared out of nowhere. They surrounded her and then shot upwards. She vaguely wondered where they came from.
Through the now-clear water she saw a large shape swimming toward her. It had a huge head and four legs. It was getting closer. She was tired and wanted to sleep. Was that shape real or was she imagining it? Her eyesight was closing in on her. The last thing Lily remembered was a feeling of warmth before she lost consciousness.
Her victory was short-lived. Just as she was about to reach the air above her, suction grabbed her again. She fought back. Frantically, she thrashed her arms to pull free. She was jerked back down—even deeper into the murky water. Defeated, she clutched at the pain in her chest as her lungs ached for good air. They wanted to breathe in something, even if it was water. It was so very quiet. All she could hear was her own panic dashing about in her head.
Lily knew this was it. She couldn’t last much longer. Her thoughts slowed. The liquid background noise was almost pleasant as it hummed in her ears. The water around her changed from murky green to clear blue. Thousands of air bubbles appeared out of nowhere. They surrounded her and then shot upwards. She vaguely wondered where they came from.
Through the now-clear water she saw a large shape swimming toward her. It had a huge head and four legs. It was getting closer. She was tired and wanted to sleep. Was that shape real or was she imagining it? Her eyesight was closing in on her. The last thing Lily remembered was a feeling of warmth before she lost consciousness.
Disorder: Martha's Closet - Maria Robinson
The black suede high heels from the wedding, dented and scuffed lying under a set of red sandals from the honeymoon.
A shoe still life entitled: " When they were in love."
Three identical black skirts, bought on ebay: Wrinkled and pleated,
grosgrain waist band, reverse zipper. Italian.
For hosting gallery openings, selling art, making money.
Soho: black skirt, white starched blouse, funky necklace, lots of cleavage.
Uptown: black skirt, cashmere sweater, pearls and expensive jewelry, hose.
Art Fair: Black skirt, 60's retro blouse, bakelite jewelry.
black high heels, black high heels, black high heels
Yoga and gym clothes, black tights, sequined hoodies and havaiana
flipflops: worn in New York and London and Florida.
Carry the sweat and karma from each place.
New York: David Barton Gym and Bikram Yoga,
London- More Bikram plus Asthanga and Kirtan,
Florida: Sunshine/Moon Yoga and Stellar Beach Gym.
All casual clothes relegated to the floor for the Salvation Army.
A shoe still life entitled: " When they were in love."
Three identical black skirts, bought on ebay: Wrinkled and pleated,
grosgrain waist band, reverse zipper. Italian.
For hosting gallery openings, selling art, making money.
Soho: black skirt, white starched blouse, funky necklace, lots of cleavage.
Uptown: black skirt, cashmere sweater, pearls and expensive jewelry, hose.
Art Fair: Black skirt, 60's retro blouse, bakelite jewelry.
black high heels, black high heels, black high heels
Yoga and gym clothes, black tights, sequined hoodies and havaiana
flipflops: worn in New York and London and Florida.
Carry the sweat and karma from each place.
New York: David Barton Gym and Bikram Yoga,
London- More Bikram plus Asthanga and Kirtan,
Florida: Sunshine/Moon Yoga and Stellar Beach Gym.
All casual clothes relegated to the floor for the Salvation Army.
Disorder - E. D. James
Olivia knew what she was seeing was not right. It was subtle. The crane was standing, it’s feathers and color looked right. But there was a slight trembling in the wings folded along its side. It’s head moved in a small side to side motion that Olivia had never seen before in cranes. The bird did not seem particularly aware of its surroundings, it didn’t have the watchful presence that she was used to seeing. She didn’t see the telltale areas of missing feathers or the reddened areas along the beak that she associated with birds that were older, but she wondered. The motions and the seeming disconnect from the world around it reminded her of her dad in his last months. The emphysema and the diabetes had rendered him palsied and listless. The drinking had left his mind at the bar. She knew the crane did not have long to live, but she didn’t know why.
Disorder - Melody Cryns
This morning I’m cooking a stir fry of veggies on the stove for the HMR Weight Management potluck at lunch today. The leaves on the trees outside my kitchen window are a lush green and I think the sun might come out today. The smell of soy sauce and garlic permeates the air.
“Wow, you’re actually cooking this early in the morning!” my daughter Megan says and we laugh. Yeah, it is kind of weird, especially considering I’ve got to be at work in about 30 minutes or so.
On Sunday, I’d gathered with my whole family at Jeremy’s house to celebrate Stevie’s 29th birthday, my big boy. He and his girlfriend had just returned from Thailand, so I brought a copy of my creative thesis with me to give to Stevie to read. I’m still not sure whether to give Melissa a copy or not because every time I read anything from it, she shouts, “Oh no, that’s not the way I remember it happened!”
“Mom’s just embellishing and making the story happen the way she sees it!” Jeremy argues.
“But I think it would be better if things happened the way they REALLY happened.”
“But how do you know you remember the way things really happened?” Jeremy asked. He’d been drinking a little and was still upset that the Sharks had lost badly – and were now out of it for the year. A pall and silence had fallen upon the room after much animated shouting among Jeremy and Stevie and their long-time friend Jamie. Jeremy immediately changed the channel, walked into his bedroom and changed out of his Sharks Jersey. He was still stinging from that – I’m not a huge sports fanatic, but I wanted the Sharks to win for my boys’ sake.
My friend Debby had arrived at Jeremy’s house before I did because I’d invited her – I wanted her to meet my family. After a while, Jen, Jeremy’s girlfriend, picked Melissa up from the train station and her friend Denise, and then Alisha came over with her daughter Alana, who is six now. As everyone shouted and laughed and talked, I relished in the chaos and disorder that is my life. Liezl, Stevie’s wonderful girlfriend, was chopping veggies up in the kitchen because she loves to cook – and baking a cake for Stevie’s birthday. The older kids drank a few shots – and eventually I did read from my thesis, the same pieces I’d read at my special reading that two of my four kids had missed.
I read it for Stevie and Melissa and for Alisha, Jen and Liezl and Denise – starting with 1986 when we were in Germany – Melissa shouting, “Mom, are you sure it really happened that way?” No one else seemed to care.
“But, Mom, I don’t know about that part where Chandel stole money from all of us – and Stevie confronted her – remember that?”
Funny because I’d forgotten that was even in my thesis even though I’d read it through how many times?
“Wow, you’re actually cooking this early in the morning!” my daughter Megan says and we laugh. Yeah, it is kind of weird, especially considering I’ve got to be at work in about 30 minutes or so.
On Sunday, I’d gathered with my whole family at Jeremy’s house to celebrate Stevie’s 29th birthday, my big boy. He and his girlfriend had just returned from Thailand, so I brought a copy of my creative thesis with me to give to Stevie to read. I’m still not sure whether to give Melissa a copy or not because every time I read anything from it, she shouts, “Oh no, that’s not the way I remember it happened!”
“Mom’s just embellishing and making the story happen the way she sees it!” Jeremy argues.
“But I think it would be better if things happened the way they REALLY happened.”
“But how do you know you remember the way things really happened?” Jeremy asked. He’d been drinking a little and was still upset that the Sharks had lost badly – and were now out of it for the year. A pall and silence had fallen upon the room after much animated shouting among Jeremy and Stevie and their long-time friend Jamie. Jeremy immediately changed the channel, walked into his bedroom and changed out of his Sharks Jersey. He was still stinging from that – I’m not a huge sports fanatic, but I wanted the Sharks to win for my boys’ sake.
My friend Debby had arrived at Jeremy’s house before I did because I’d invited her – I wanted her to meet my family. After a while, Jen, Jeremy’s girlfriend, picked Melissa up from the train station and her friend Denise, and then Alisha came over with her daughter Alana, who is six now. As everyone shouted and laughed and talked, I relished in the chaos and disorder that is my life. Liezl, Stevie’s wonderful girlfriend, was chopping veggies up in the kitchen because she loves to cook – and baking a cake for Stevie’s birthday. The older kids drank a few shots – and eventually I did read from my thesis, the same pieces I’d read at my special reading that two of my four kids had missed.
I read it for Stevie and Melissa and for Alisha, Jen and Liezl and Denise – starting with 1986 when we were in Germany – Melissa shouting, “Mom, are you sure it really happened that way?” No one else seemed to care.
“But, Mom, I don’t know about that part where Chandel stole money from all of us – and Stevie confronted her – remember that?”
Funny because I’d forgotten that was even in my thesis even though I’d read it through how many times?
Disorder - Camilla Basham
Abandoned by the distance of time and miles I sit fingering mediocre stemware doubting if I was as happy then as I believed I was. I know there came a time when I sobbed, actually moaned, wailed like a baby, believing I did so because of the incredible beauty of life and the never ending fullness of my days; but I am wondering now, three martinis in, if the tears weren’t induced by something all together different.
I sit with other teary eyed women in the Dew Drop Inn, a mobile home turned into a bar along an otherwise desolate Main Street in the middle of Bumfucked, USA, the town where I was born and immediately plotted to leave, just down the road from the hospital where my mother awaits her destiny. Discussions quickly shift from the best fried catfish recipe to the sexual expertise of a certain neighborhood high school basketball coach, when I notice a man who takes my breath away seated at the far end of the bar. This is no small feat in a god-forsaken town such as this where few men, if any, have all of their teeth. He looks like a man who would take you on the kitchen table before dinner, inhaling the sweet scent of just killed animal flesh searing on his hot charcoal grill; or in the front seat of his car at one of those old drive in movies, as Cary Grant throws his ninety foot long shadow over your exposed heaving breasts and his perfectly proportioned glistening bare ass as you taste his sweet breath rammed down your throat.
My therapist calls it a disorder: this ability to lose myself in sensual fantasy when faced with stress. Actors are sent away to rehab for such a disorder after their wives catch them with women half their ages. I slip a coin into the jukebox; take another sip, pop a vodka soaked olive in my mouth, cross my legs, arch my back and focus on the beast. Is it really a disorder? Or is it actually order: to crave something so raw and primal, when faced with something as raw and primal as death; your parent’s, your own?
I sit with other teary eyed women in the Dew Drop Inn, a mobile home turned into a bar along an otherwise desolate Main Street in the middle of Bumfucked, USA, the town where I was born and immediately plotted to leave, just down the road from the hospital where my mother awaits her destiny. Discussions quickly shift from the best fried catfish recipe to the sexual expertise of a certain neighborhood high school basketball coach, when I notice a man who takes my breath away seated at the far end of the bar. This is no small feat in a god-forsaken town such as this where few men, if any, have all of their teeth. He looks like a man who would take you on the kitchen table before dinner, inhaling the sweet scent of just killed animal flesh searing on his hot charcoal grill; or in the front seat of his car at one of those old drive in movies, as Cary Grant throws his ninety foot long shadow over your exposed heaving breasts and his perfectly proportioned glistening bare ass as you taste his sweet breath rammed down your throat.
My therapist calls it a disorder: this ability to lose myself in sensual fantasy when faced with stress. Actors are sent away to rehab for such a disorder after their wives catch them with women half their ages. I slip a coin into the jukebox; take another sip, pop a vodka soaked olive in my mouth, cross my legs, arch my back and focus on the beast. Is it really a disorder? Or is it actually order: to crave something so raw and primal, when faced with something as raw and primal as death; your parent’s, your own?
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