Amy Loves Books

Losing Tabitha

When I moved out on my own, I adopted a cat. I decided that I wanted a black cat, because I felt sorry for black cats and the way people considered them symbols of bad luck. At the animal shelter, I picked out a tiny, solid black kitten. I went to the front desk with the cage number and the attendant looked it up in her little card file and told me that I could not have that kitten because it was running a fever and they had already pulled its card to put it to sleep. I begged them to let me have the cat, and they consulted and said that as long as I agreed to take it to the vet before going home, they would let me adopt her.

I drove to the vet with the kitten in my lap, petting her and talking to her. By the time the vet checked her out, the fever was gone and he said that he felt confident that it had been caused by trauma and that she would be just fine. I took her home and named her “Tabitha” - after the little girl that Jesus raised from the dead.

Tabitha was the best cat ever. She would answer when I called her name and I could hold her in my arms and tell her to stretch and she would stretch out her entire body, backwards - trusting me to not let her fall. I adored her. Everyone who came to my house would comment about how amazing she was. She would climb on furniture and as I walked around, she would look for any opportunity to hop onto my shoulder. She curled herself around my neck and purred and slept while I walked around. She was the best pet I have ever had. I loved Tabitha.

In the middle of my sophomore year of college, I had an emotional breakdown. It was brought on, in part, by being dumped by my first really serious boyfriend. There were other reasons too.

It was a very, very, very bad time.

I withdrew from college after being diagnosed as “emotionally unstable” by the college psychiatrist. I later found out, that in order to get this diagnosis (which carried with it the opportunity for a refund of tuition), my case had to be argued before a panel. It was less than comforting to know that a whole group of people had discussed me and agreed that I was completely screwed up. I decided to leave town. Really, I had to leave town. I was going to go to live with my parents for a few months and then transfer to the University of Georgia. My parents had moved to Georgia while I was in college, so it was not like going “home”. It was just a temporary stop. Temporary shelter. I would put distance between myself and the past and search for a place to land.

I was all alone and I packed up everything I owned in my Ford Escort. It was packed so tightly that I could not see anything behind me. I put Tabitha in the car and drove to my parents house, through rural south Georgia with its two lane roads and unincorporated towns. I drove for a long time before I realized that I was not hearing Tabitha. I called to her. No answer.

I pulled the car over to the side of the road and when I got out, I realized that the trunk had popped slightly open. I started to panic. The trunk could be accessed from the car because part of the back seat folded down to make more space. I searched for Tabitha.

She was gone.

I drove back for miles, frantically scanning the side of the road. But I did not find her. I never found her.

I drove until I came upon a pay phone on the side of the road - out in front of a two-pump gas station and I made a collect call to my mother. I was hysterical. I had lost Tabitha. My only link to my old life was gone, disappeared out the back of a trunk that I did not even know was open.

And for the first and last time in my life, my mother cried with me. We just stood there. Me on a dusty red dirt driveway with a pay phone receiver to my ear, and her in her immaculate kitchen in a house that did not have a bedroom for me. We stood, momentarily together, and cried. For everything lost and dead and broken. We cried.

vehement
melancholy
pensive
alcove
wistful

from Walt Whitman:

"Love the earth and sun and the animals,

despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks,

stand up for the stupid and crazy,

devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants,

argue not concerning God,

have patience and indulgence toward the people,

take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men...

go freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with the mothers or families

re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul;

and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body."

i just had to take a break from packing.

so i went to Barnes and Noble and bought a new book.

just what i needed - because a girl can never have too many books. and i do have an extra bookshelf now. i am sure i will find the time to read this one.

at least - that's my story - and i'm sticking to it.

one week from today, i will be moving into my new house.

i have realized - i have a ton of crap.

also - i hate moving.

also - i would really like to take a nap.

I went to the movies last night.

I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which was, as I am sure you have heard by now, wonderful. Seriously wonderful. It made me cry more than once.

I am still divided as to whether I should be flattered or frightened by the fact that some people think that I remind them of Clementine. I would say that some people should watch just how loudly they laugh at certain scenes because I can be a vindictive little bitch. And they, of all people, know it.

Anyway, so I am in the theater and they show this public service announcement about not downloading movies off of the internet. It features this very nice stuntman. He seems like an honest, hardworking guy. He is talking about how much effort goes into making movies. The point, I think, is that he risks his freaking life to make movies, and if we download them off the internet - we are hurting the “little people” like our friend the stuntman. At one point he describes one of his stunts by saying “there was a virtual bomb in the car". There are lots of explosions and it looks very dangerous and the audience should be convinced right now that they will never, ever, download a movie illegally again because downloading is stealing from hardworking, life-risking guys - like Mr. Stuntman.

Then, the music swells and Mr. Stuntman lays it on the line. He delivers the zinger. He makes his case. We have been manipulated by the explosions, by Mr. Nice Stuntman working so hard - risking his life to bring us our car chase scenes. We have been moved by his sincerity, by the virtual bomb in the car. We are ready to sign a pledge right now that we will never, ever do anything to hurt our new friend Mr. Stuntman.

And he says: “whether you steal a candy bar from a store or download a movie off the internet, it is wrong”.

WHAT?????????

So, downloading movies is the equivalent of stealing a Snickers????

Heck, I stole Life Savers when I was four years old. I actually thought downloading movies was worse before I saw this announcement. What were they thinking? People, hire a freaking screenwriter. They need the money too.

More notes on trailers:

- I am revising my “I am afraid of the result” opinion of the new John Irving film to “yup, it is going to suck”.

- Oh my gosh! The kid from Scrubs made a movie? And it starts Natalie Portman? And it looks really cool? What the hell is that about?

- I have this thing for movies with the following plot: people get married (due to some outside circumstance) and then they fall in love. These movies are normally horrible and cheesy but I can not help myself. I must see them.

- I wonder how I would define the good moments in my life if it was not for movies?
How would I know how to recognize them? Because, as it is, I completely define everything by how much it is like a scene in a movie. I think that I even define people by how interesting they would be as characters in a movie.

Which may be why I have loved the people I have loved. I love fictional characters that I wish could be real people, and I love real people that I think would make great fictional characters.

After being told that if I were a movie, I would be Apocalypse Now, how could I resist finding out what book I would be? I actually ended up being a book by one of my short-list authors.

You're A Prayer for Owen Meany!

by John Irving

Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire
faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest
this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking
moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT
SOUNDS LIKE THIS!


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

So, Apocalypse Now and A Prayer For Owen Meany. Yup, that probably sums me up. I share a birthday with both Ghandi and Stalin - which is a fact I have always found most appropriate.

Thanks to Andrew for the link to the Book Quiz

If they (as in producer/director of your choice) made a movie about your life - who would you absolutely not want them to cast to play you? Alternately (or additionally) who would you want to have cast to play you?

Personally, I would hate to be played by Winona Ryder.

There is another post about George called "Gargoyles In Our Youth" in the archives, in case you want more background and/or are new to this blog.


I loved George so much that there were times that it physically hurt. My heart would fold in on itself and I would think that maybe I would not be able to breathe. We never kissed and it used to upset me. I loved him so much, I wanted everything. But nothing like that ever happened. He held my hand and slept next to me, and I loved him enough to want to break in two - but nothing like that ever happened. Not even when he had been drinking. Not even then.

I remember one night, at 4 am, walking out across an abandoned railway bridge in the middle of the woods. Dangling our feet over the edge. Smoking in the cold and dark and quiet. Trees and stars and a creek beneath us. Watching the first hint of light dawning. Then, going and getting breakfast and coffee at the local diner.

I remember going to Kroger in the middle of the night to buy bagels and cream cheese and I saw Fruit Stripe gum and said that I used to love it when I was a kid and while I paid for the bagels, George took a pack of Fruit Stripe gum and stuck it down the back of my dress - tucked it under my bra-stap. As I paid the cashier, I tried to act like everything was normal. Life with George was never normal.

There was a thrift store called The Potter’s House that had a “regular” thrift store with hanging clothes and then an entire room called “the rag pile”. “The rag pile” was only for the very brave. To be honest, the rag pile was a little intimidating to me. It was a ten foot mountain of clothes that you had to wade through - dig through. You got a brown paper bag and could fill it for a few dollars. George loved the rag pile. He loved to just dive in, to wallow in the clothes. I remember once, being in the rag pile with him and finding a sandwich. Scary. George saw how horrified I was by the moldy sandwich and he acted like he was going to eat it.

I miss things about George. I miss hearing him tell me we should go get “tack-os” instead of tacos. I miss riding in the car with him as he sang along to the Pogues. I miss having him look me in the eyes and sing “You’re a pretty queen of New York City”. I miss singing back to him my part of the song. "Happy Christmas your arse, I thank God it's our last".

I miss the way he always wanted to dance. Everywhere. In a laundry mat, in the middle of the street, in a Waffle House at 3 am on the night before finals with Special Lady Waiting For Me At The Waffle House playing on the jukebox and our textbooks, forgotten, on the table.

I miss seeing him pretending to be a gargoyle, freaking out all the little normal girls in the dorm when he worked security.

I miss the way he always knew what I would like, whether it was song, or a person, or a concert, or a bridge at night, or a Woodpecker Cider and a clove cigarette.

I miss him holding my hand. Only holding my hand, but doing it with his whole heart. Not as a prelude to romance, but as love in and of itself.

He made me feel wild and free and safe and found and treasured.

He gave me the courage to take on half the world. And my world is immeasurably richer for having known him. For having been loved by him. For having had him to teach me how to love.

I have short lists. As I have been going through my old things, I have realized that I have very short lists.

I have always felt a little odd. It seems that most people have a good number of friendships. Girls especially. The way that girls tend to flock together in groups. The whole “girlfriends”/ “sorority sisters” thing. I have never known how to have a bunch of friends at once. My best friend has a ton of other friends. She does things with them, talks to them on the phone. Not me. I have the numbers of two friends programmed into my cell phone.

Honestly, I have never had the desire to have a whole bunch of friends at once. I have had about seven or eight really meaningful friendships - total - in my whole life. Almost all of them have occurred at separate times.

A few weeks ago, my brother came in town and I took the opportunity to raid his CD collection and import about fifty CDs into iTunes. I was getting all caught up and current. I don’t listen to any of it. I tried. Kind of. Some of it is nice enough. The only CD I find myself listening to consistently is The Pogues, and this is just because they remind me so strongly of my friend George. That’s when it hit me. I have only had about seven or eight bands that I have really loved - in my whole life. If I don’t really love a band - I just don’t have time for it. I make mix cd’s for myself in the car. Every single one has basically the same songs on it. It’s not just people I am selective about - it is everything. I have very short lists.

I respond to things quickly. They either make the short list, or they don't. I judge movies by the opening credits.

Once, I went to see an acoustic show by one of my short listed bands, The Indigo Girls. They had this kid open for them. It was just this boy and his guitar and when he sang, he closed his eyes and kind of wrapped his soul around the guitar and you could tell he was living and breathing through the music.

I had never heard of Josh Joplin before. I had never seen anyone play music with that much passion before. Immediately, he was on the short list. One song in, and he was on the short list. When I got home and looked him up on the computer, I found out that he had left home to wander around, writing music - and that his influences were The Smiths, Dylan, Guthrie, and Michelle Shocked - among others. But halfway through his first song, I knew all this. I knew he was making the list. By the way he closed his eyes when he sang and made everything disappear for himself. I saw that, and I knew.

I am this way about everything. Television, movies, restaurants, books. It makes me incredibly loyal. In class last week one of my fellow grad students was complaining about teaching The Catcher In The Rye with all the profanity and how her students were using profanity in class. I raised my hand to protest. “But”, I pointed out, “please remember that Holden never uses any sexual profanity and the one time he sees a sexual word written he tries to erase it.” I just had to give a shout out for Holden. Because I love Holden. Don’t talk bad about Holden around me. I have loved him since I was fifteen years old. I will love him forever. He is on the short list.

I drive to Athens sometimes just to eat at The Grit. I use Macintosh computers because of the Wumpus game I used to play in elementary school during College For Kids. My daughter is named after a character in a book I read in the third grade. Sometimes, I will be driving in my car, and I will feel a wave of sadness because something will make me think about River Phoenix. All these years later, I am still sad that River Phoenix died. I have grown up, but he never will. I miss knowing that he is alive. I will miss him forever.

I am beginning to appreciate the shortness of my lists. I am discovering that, in their own way, my short lists have made my life incredibly rich. They enable me to live a life of cherishing.

I read a story once about a little boy who had two matchbox cars. He loved his matchbox cars, played with them constantly, slept with them, brought them to the table to eat. A family friend knew this and she started collecting Matchbox cars for him during a promotion at fast food restauarant. When the promotion was over, she gave a whole box of brand new matchbox cars to the little boy. She was certain that she had made his life richer and happier.

A few weeks later, she was over at the boy’s house and she noticed that he was not playing with his cars any longer. She asked him what had happened. The boy just looked at her and said “I don’t know how to love so many cars”.

This is me: I don’t know how to love so many cars. So I keep my lists short. I keep them short enough to tuck in my heart and carry with me wherever I go. And I know how to love them.

I know how to wrap my heart around them and cherish their beauty and imperfection and passion.

It's a short list, but I know how to love them.

Once, there was a boy. His parents kept the toothbrushes locked away. He could not brush his teeth and he had to get braces.

He had two sisters and the same thing happened to them. Some of their teeth even fell out.

They had a third sister. They hated her. They could not stand her. She found the toothbrushes, so she had pretty teeth. Also, she had arms and legs and they did not.

The brother and the two sisters are going to leave home and go to live with Nana.
They will take this with them:

The End

standing quiet in the rain. wearing my best friend's clothes.

here - it was not a bowler hat, but it was a close as charles had. pondering the unbearable lightness of being. trying my best to imagine i could be a sabina when in my heart, i know i am a tereza.



here - imagining i am strong and brave and tough and that as long as i can wear someone elses clothes and pretend to smoke, i won't get eaten by my shadow.

i am deeply grateful; i am eternally grateful to charles. charles, who got me all broken in little pieces, and had me play dress-up and wanted to take my picture.

my true love charles. in memory of every bed of nails we waited on.
angie loves noah.

more photos to come later.

This may be my favorite thing ever written about Easter. Unfortunately, it is written by Kahlil Gibran - who gets the tagged as a non-Christian writer. As a result, Christians rarely read this beautiful piece. It says really, what I would say - if I were a poet-philosopher:

The Crucified
Kahlil Gibran

Today, and on this same day of each year, man is startled from his deep slumber and stands before the phantoms of the Ages, looking with tearful eyes toward Mount Calvary to witness Jesus the Nazarene nailed on the Cross. But when the day is over and eventide comes, he returns and kneels to pray before the idols erected upon every hilltop, every prairie, and every barter of wheat.

Today, the Christian souls ride on the wing of memories and fly to Jerusalem. There they will stand in throngs, beating upon their bosoms, and staring at him, crowned with a wreath of thorns, stretching his arms before heaven, and looking from behind the veil of Death into the depths of Life.

But when the curtain of night drops over the stage of the day and the brief drama is concluded, the Christians will go back in groups and lie down in the shadow of oblivion between quilts of ignorance and slothfulness.

On this one day of each year, the philosophers leave their dark caves, and the thinkers their cold cells, and the poets their imaginary arbors, and all stand reverently upon that silent mountain, listening to the voice of a young man saying of his killers, "Oh Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing."

But as dark silence chokes the voices of the light, the philosophers and the thinkers and the poets return to their narrow crevices and shroud their souls with meaningless pages of parchment.

The women who busy themselves in the splendor of Life will bestir themselves today from their cushions to see the sorrowful woman standing before the Cross like a tender sapling before the raging tempest; and when they approach near to her, they will hear a deep moaning and a painful grief.

The young men and women who are racing with the torrent of modern civilization will halt today for a moment, and look backward to see the young Magdalene washing with her tears the blood stains from the feet of a Holy Man suspended between heaven and earth; and when their shallow eyes weary of the scene they will depart and soon laugh.

On this day of each year, Humanity wakes with the awakening of Spring, and stands crying below the suffering Nazarene; then she closes her eyes and surrenders herself to a deep slumber. But Spring will remain awake, smiling and progressing until merged into Summer, dressed in scented golden raiment. Humanity is a mourner who enjoys lamenting the memories and heroes of the Ages. If Humanity were possessed of understanding, there would be rejoicing over their glory. Humanity is like a child standing in glee by a wounded beast. Humanity laughs before the strengthening torrent which carries into oblivion the dry branches of the trees, and sweeps away with determination all things not fastened to strength.

Humanity looks upon Jesus the Nazarene as a poor-born who suffered misery and humiliation with all the weak. And he is pitied, for Humanity believes he was crucified painfully. And all that Humanity offers to him is crying and wailing and lamentation. For centuries Humanity has been worshiping weakness in the person of the Savior.

The Nazarene was not weak! He was strong and is strong! But people refuse to heed the true meaning of strength.

Jesus never lived a life of fear, nor did he die complaining. He lived as a leader; he was crucified as a crusader; he died with a strength that frightened his killers and tormentors.

Jesus was not a bird with broken wings. He was a raging tempest who broke all crooked wings. He feared not his persecutors nor his enemies. Free and brave and daring he was. He defied all despots and oppressors. He saw the contagious pustules and amputated them. He muted Evil and he crushed Falsehood and he choked Treachery.

Jesus came not from the heart of the circle of Light to destroy the homes and build upon their ruins the convents and monasteries. He did not persuade the strong man to become a monk or a priest, but he came to send forth upon this earth a new spirit, with power to crumble the foundation of any monarchy built upon human bones and skulls. He came to demolish the majestic palaces, constructed on the graves of the weak, and crush the idols, erected upon the bodies of the poor. Jesus was not sent here to teach the people to build magnificent churches and temples amidst the cold wretched huts and dismal hovels. He came to make the human heart a temple, and the soul an altar, and the mind a priest.

These were the missions of Jesus the Nazarene, and these are the teachings for which he was crucified. And if Humanity were wise, she would stand today and sing in strength the song of conquest and the hymn of triumph.

Oh, Crucified Jesus, who art looking sorrowfully from Mount Calvary at the sad procession of the Ages, and hearing the clamor of the dark nations, and understanding the dreams of Eternity: Thou art, on the Cross, more glorious and dignified than one thousand kings upon one thousand thrones in one thousand empires.

Thou art, in the agony of death, more powerful than one thousand generals in one thousand wars.

With thy sorrows, thou art more joyous than Spring with its flowers.

With thy suffering, thou art more bravely silent than the crying of angels of heaven. Before thy lashers, thou art more resolute than the mountain of rock.

Thy wreath of thorns is more brilliant and sublime than the crown of Bahram. The nails piercing thy hands are more beautiful than the scepter of Jupiter.

The spatters of blood upon thy feet are more resplendent than the necklace of Ishtar.

Forgive the weak who lament thee today, for they do not know how to lament themselves.

Forgive them, for they do not know that thou hast conquered death with death, and bestowed life upon the dead.

Forgive them, for they do not know that thy strength still awaits them.

Forgive them, for they do not know that every day is thy day.

There is a tradition at Tri Cities. I do not know if this is specific to my school, or to the area, or to all African-American communities. It seems that it could possibly be linked in spirit to the old “rent parties”.

Whatever the case, I love this tradition.

When a student has a birthday, they come to school with a dollar bill safety pinned to their shirt. All day long, classmates, friends, teachers - even strangers - will hand the person a dollar bill when they see them. By the end of the day, they have a big stack of dollar bills pinned to their shirt. It is so beautiful.

How wonderful it must be to walk around for a day and have people stop and acknowledge that the world is just a little brighter because you were born. How encouraging to be tangibly congratulated for another year that you managed to keep passing the open windows.

What if, for one day, we got go to school or work in the morning with just a bit of hope safety pinned to our shirt, and came home heavy-laden with the blessings of others.

I think it would be wonderful.

Heavenly.

My students have blogs!

Most of them have done at least one entry - but should be blogging more as we zip through Romeo and Juliet over the course of the next two weeks. They are writing the blogs in character. They voted to try to write in Shakespearean-esque language, but have only read one act of Romeo and Juliet - so this is all very new to them.

The purpose of my project is threefold:
1. to involve them in the text of the play
2. to evaluate the effect of blogging on their writing process and concept of themselves as writers
3. to evaluate if/how the interactive nature of blogging (i.e. having what they write read by others) improves their writing.

I am hoping to see an increase in their excitement about writing and an improvement in their writing and editing ability as they write and respond to others.

If anyone would like to read their blogs and leave them comments - you can find them here:

In Fair Verona Where We Lay Our Scene

Feel free to leave encouraging comments. If you ask questions or want to leave a comment in character - my kids have been instructed to reply.

Also - if anyone wants to pass on this link - especially anyone out there who teaches or has contact with educators - feel free to do so.

I am in denial about the fact that I am moving in just two weeks. Instead of packing diligently, I am mulling over boxes from my mother's attic.

So far I have found:

my very wonderful blue jean mini-skirt with song quotes burned into it with a q-tip dipped in Clorox.
(on the back "All I want is to hold you like a dog").

all my pictures of George

all my pictures of Charles

my list of 100 good things and 100 bad things that I made my senior year of high school in 1987 (on the "bad" list - The Aeneid - which I actually really loved when I read it this past fall. At the time though, I could not get past the whole Dido thing. Lots of allusions to Dido in my poetry for a while there. I think it was foreshadowing.)

a box of notes from Gwen - one of my favorite quotes thus far:
But then again, what is Mona material, really? Let us ponder the deeper meaning of this. Seriously! What do you think of as a Mona-type of guy? Personally - well, outgoing guys. And at the very least moderately handsome. Or, if not, very very very bizarre looking to make up for it."

a short story called "The King of Infinite Space" - not written by me. There is lovely story attached to this one.

a photograph of a waterfall with a Yates poem written on the back

all my Smiths memoribilia

my poetry

Here is one of the last poems I ever wrote - I wrote this one in 1990; I was twenty:

Florida - Part One

as a child
one week each year
was spent at my grandparent’s house
in Gulfport, Florida

my brother and I viewed this dubious vacation
as a sort of penance for all the previous year’s wrong doings
something to be suffered
and endured

Gulfport is where the old people go to die.

sticky summers spent
climbing mimosa trees
running through black sand that burned our feet
squeezing fallen oranges, dried syrup on our arms
riding bicycles through alleys lined with crushed shells
catching lizards

it was hot
always
too hot to sleep
or eat anything but Coke and Oreos and Peanut Butter Captain Crunch

Florida at night
was eerie for a child
Okeephenokee, Weeki Watchie, Withalacoochie

flashes of heat lightening
the buzz of insects outside
and inside, the ghostly electric light
I never slept well

flipping my pillow
tangled in damp sheets
trapped in a single week that stretched on endlessly
like the waves
or the World Series

I spent my last night in Florida with my best friend Charles. I was in the middle of a complete breakdown, withdrawn from college with a mental health excuse. Charles was fresh out of rehab for the latest - but not the last - time. I did not want to be alone. I could not bear the idea of sleeping alone. I was afraid to be by myself in an apartment surrounded by boxes.

I called Charles, desperate, and he was freshly enough out of rehab that he was not out clubbing.
He was between boyfriends and his roomate was in a new relationship and was not coming home at night. It was just Charles and me. Just us.

We stayed up almost all night. We made an absolutely horrendous “art” film that was inspired by David Lynch. Charles and I had both snuck into see Blue Velvet together in high school. We had a mutual friend that worked the box office. I forget which movie we said we buying tickets for. I think it was Stand By Me. We were both “intellectual” and pretentious enough to think that candles and fake blood and a kitchen knife set to the soundtrack from Twin Peaks made for brilliant cinematic experimentation. The film we shot should not be watched sober. Strike that. The film should not be watched at all.

Charles also took about three rolls of pictures that night. He kept most of the pictures, I kept the video (thank God, I have the only copy of the video). I found a handful of the pictures from that night today. Here are two. Look close and you can see the real me. It was Charles behind the lens. I did not have to pretend.

In preparation for my big move - I dug through a box of stuff from my youth. Prepare to be inundated with photos and etc. as I walk down memory lane.

I had originally written this with changed names, but I have reconsidered. As I have been thinking, I remember that this friend of mine asked me once to make sure her journals got published if she died. It seems only right that I attach her name. Her name was Gwen. She was brilliant.

Charles was my friend of the rehab weekend, Gwen was my friend who cut herself. She kept journals and wrote poetry and cut herself.

The following is an excerpt from a note she sent me in high school:

"I just got a note from Jill (name changed there - this was a girl who was NOT a punk). 'Dear Gwen: I'm going to a party Saturday night - a Halloween party. I'm going as a punk. Do you have any ideas? Also - any chains I can borrow?'

Really, I should get paid for this job. I wish she could hear Halloween by the Dead Kennedys. But WAIT! The plot thickens! I told her to wear crosses, bleached jeans, and black, but she CAN'T. She has to be CAREFUL! It's a MORMON CHURCH PARTY!

Now, you tell me how to tell somebody to dress up punk for a Mormon Church Party. Wear a garbage bag and cry in a corner."

I don't think I realized how brilliant this was at the time.

How do you dress punk for a Mormon Halloween party?
"wear a garbage bag and cry in a corner"

Gwen, you were funny and wise and stronger than you knew.

Brilliant.

My friend, you were brilliant.

I am thirty-three years old. I have been married for eleven years. I have two elementary school aged children. Until yesterday, I had never owned a home.

The idea of buying a house just seemed too big of deal to me. It seemed like such a commitment. I am extremely loyal. The books I loved in high school are still my favorites. I get all happy inside when I hear Echo and the Bunnymen and the Smiths. I still love circus peanuts and Fun Dip. I do not part well with things or people. What I love, I always love. The thought of buying a house and not having it be the house is upsetting to me. I moved eleven times in my first nine years of marriage. Moving does not bother me if I am just moving from temporary shelter to temporary shelter. Settling down is what scares me. Deciding to settle down. Deciding to commit to a house.

One of the things I love best about my husband, is that I know that I could say to him tomorrow: “Honey, I really want us to move to a cabin in Montana and I’d like to have five more children”, and he would say, “Okay”. I could tell him I wanted to get a Ph.D and he would support me. I know that he gives me complete flexibility and freedom - and that is something I really need. I do not do well when I feel trapped. I bite and run and find small spaces to hide in.

It was not hard for me to commit to marriage. It was not hard for me to commit to having children. One would think that, logically, these are much bigger and more serious decisions. But I knew that I wanted to spend my life with my husband. I knew that I wanted children more than anything in the world. I have not known if I want a house. Or what kind of house. Or where I want a house. Or when I want a house.

I am a person who works largely off of intuition. I don’t really consider it intuition, I consider it God. I have always sensed things. I have always known things. I have trusted that I will know when to buy a house. That I will just sense it. For the past six months, we have been looking at houses. This process stresses me out. I hate it.

In looking at these houses, I have felt like one of those men who delays getting married for ages and then wakes up and decides that they are ready to have a wife and kids so they go marry the next person they see. My brother almost did this. He turns thirty today and is graduating from medical school. He was feeling old I guess. Old and lonley. My brother has a tattoo with a Milan Kundera quote on his chest. He almost married a girl that made him a Build A Bear for his birthday without intending irony. She included a little doctor outfit and a bag of stuffed doctor accessories. It was scary. She was a sweet girl, a pretty girl. There was nothing wrong with her, she was just not the right girl for him. He would have married her and the walls would have slowly started to close in. I did not want to buy a house that was the equivalent of a Build-A-Bear making girlfriend. I have looked at all these houses and every one has seemed like a compromise.

But now, I have found this house. It has the best tree in it’s background. And it has great doors.
All the doors, in the whole house, have keyholes. It has a real attic. Also, a cellar with walls made of earth. It is an old house. It is in a transitional neighborhood. It means leaving the suburbs and the high scoring all-white school system. My mother cried when I told her that I
really loved this house. Once again, I have proven myself to be a rebellious, headstrong, dramatic person. I have fallen for a dramatic house. I have been swayed by windows and keyholes and trees. I am not being sensible. I am following my heart, and if there is one thing my mother believes, it is that the heart must be silenced and tamed. She is really angry that I say I am praying about it. She tells me that God does not work that way. She believes that we must do what is sensible and safe and practical and God follows us with a pat on the head for a job well done. God is not, definitely not, never ever ever is He in any way shape or form - Dramatic.

The God I love is the kind of God that told Mary to ride a donkey when she was nine months pregnant and to give birth in a stable. He asks people to step out of boats, to leave what they know of as home and wander in a desert. He is a God that sends wise men with gifts, that reaches out his hand, and sends manna every morning. This is the kind of faith that I long for; this is the kind of God that I want to rush to embrace without being sensible and logical.

So, I bought a house. A beautiful house. A beautiful, old house. I bought it for the tree and the keyholes, and because I heard God whisper in my ear “yes”.

look! more bookshelves

and a very cool door

Happy Saint Patrick's Day. If you do not have any green to wear - it's half-off day at Salvation Army thrift stores.

Yesterday my cell phone (which I never turn off because it usually does not have a signal at school) went off right in the middle of my lecture to my students. My cell phone plays "Personal Jesus" as its ring tone. I held my breath for a second, worried that my "I am an adult and an authority figure" cover had been permenantly blown.

One of the kids asked what the song was. I told him it was a song from when I was younger. "What kind of music is it?" he asked. I hestiated. "Is it punk rock?" he asked. "Not really", I tried to explain "it was too mainstream at the time but .." He interrupted me, "You were a punk rocker weren't you?" he asked. I smiled, and said: "You know it".

Then, I went on with Romeo and Juliet - my credibility amazingly restored.

They were just like me. And I was just like them.

Lyrics to When I was Boy
by Dar Williams

I won't forget when Peter Pan came to my house, took my hand
I said I was a boy; I'm glad he didn't check.
I learned to fly, I learned to fight
I lived a whole life in one night
We saved each other's lives out on the pirate's deck.
And I remember that night
When I'm leaving a late night with some friends
And I hear somebody tell me it's not safe, someone should help me
I need to find a nice man to walk me home.
When I was a boy, I scared the pants off of my mom,
Climbed what I could climb upon
And I don't know how I survived,
I guess I knew the tricks that all boys knew.
And you can walk me home, but I was a boy, too.

I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw.
My neighbor come outside to say, "Get your shirt,"
I said "No way, it's the last time I'm not breaking any law."
And now I'm in a clothing store, and the sign says less is more
More that's tight means more to see, more for them, not more for me
That can't help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat

When I was a boy, see that picture? That was me
Grass-stained shirt and dusty knees
And I know things have gotta change,
They got pills to sell, they've got implants to put in, they've got implants to remove
But I am not forgetting
That I was a boy too

And like the woods where I would creep, it's a secret I can keep
Except when I'm tired, except when I'm being caught off guard
I've had a lonesome awful day, the conversation finds its way
To catching fire-flies out in the backyard.
And I tell the man I'm with about the other life I lived
And I say now you're top gun, I have lost and you have won
And he says, "Oh no, no, can't you see
When I was a girl, my mom and I we always talked
And I picked flowers everywhere that I walked.
And I could always cry, now even when I'm alone I seldom do
And I have lost some kindness
But I was a girl too.
And you were just like me, and I was just like you.

I really should have learned my lesson after I took the stupid "What kind of hat are you?" test and it told me that I was not a hat. But I saw this one and since I really like movies, I just could not resist taking it. I was too curious to know what movie I would be.

Evidently, I am not a good personality test taker.

For my fifth birthday, I wanted to ride a horse. My parents tried to get me to ask for something easier. I persisted. I wanted to ride a horse. They told me that if I wanted to ride a horse, that I could not have any presents. I could not even have a birthday party. All I would get would be one little ride on a horse. Sounded good to me. I could not be swayed.

My father took me to a stable and arranged a riding lesson for me. The man who owned the stable saw how tiny I was and tried to convince me to ride a pony instead. I was not interested in ponies. My feet did not reach the stirrups. He thought that I would not be able to handle a horse. He tried to talk me into riding in a circle on a lead. I did not want the lead. Why be on a horse if you are just going to go in a circle? I wanted to really ride a horse. I wanted a horse, not a pony, and I wanted to ride it on a trail in the woods. Me and the horse. I wanted a moment that was me and the horse. My mother was not there. It was just my dad and the man that owned the stable. It was just men and I really wanted to ride. I believed I could do it. And they let me.

I look at this picture now and I think, “What the hell were they thinking?” I mean, look at me. I am tiny. I could have been killed on that horse. I look at that picture and I am scared for myself. I would not let myself ride that horse. I think those men were insane. How could they have trusted me?

I wonder, when did I stop being fearless?

When did I start making equations that factored in all possible unknown x-factors? I have never been good at math. I make the equation and it looks so intimidating, I don’t even try to find the solution.

This is my prayer this week. My prayer this week is that I will give myself permission to ride the horse. That I look at this picture and will stop noticing how small I am in the saddle and start remembering how it felt when it was just me and the horse. When it was me and the horse and I reached up my hand into the trees and pulled leaves off the branches. I pray that I will remember this and that I will not be afraid to hold the reins in my hand, even though I really have no idea how to use them.

By Brian Andreas.
poet. storyteller. artist.

Funny World

He told me about
Jesus & Arizona
& the best way to
make beer & I
said you're a
funny kind of
preacher & he
said it's a funny
kind of world & I
still remember his
eyes clear as a
desert morning

Epiphany

She saw herself
reflected in the
store window &
then the sun
changed & she
disappeared &
all she could
see was her eyes
& she remembered
thinking, I make
a very nice floor
lamp & that was
the day she decided
to quit her job.

Belly of the Pig

Every day he stood in
front of the Bank of
America. You're
trapped
in the belly
of a big
pink pig,
he said.

We ignored him.
We had work to do.

The Plumber

The plumber was digging around
in the pipes & he saw something
shine in the muck & it turned
out to be the soul of the last
tenant.

He gave it to me & I said I
wonder how we can return it &
he shrugged & said he found
stuff like that all the time.

You'd be amazed what people
lose, he said.

And when all your dreams come true,
do the memories still end up haunting you?
Is there such a thing as really breaking through,
to another day, and a brighter shade of blue?"

- Christine Kane

This is a quote from the Christine Kane song that my husband says reminds him of me. He heard this song for the first time before I did. He told me that it made him think of me. It was one of the best things anyone has ever told me. The song is called "She don't like roses". I don't. I actually hate roses. It is a song about a strange, lost girl and the man that finds her and falls immediately in love with her. It made me know that my husband gets me. He really gets me.

I have been thinking a lot since I started writing these essays. I have been thinking about the past.

I was not a happy kid. I had some awful things happen to me. I had some people break me. Absolutely break me. There were years I got lost in. There were times when I thought I would never get put together again - that the pieces were just too scrambled.

At the same time, I see how I have been unimaginably blessed. I was blessed with friends that held my hand. Most of them were just as broken as me. Not groups of friends. But a few. There were a few. Enough. More than enough. They did things like leave a copy of The Princess Bride on my pillow when I was sick with a note on the inside that said "most effective if read when ill". They let me paint their walls. They gave me a place to stay. They went to the circus with me.

I have had these incredible friends in the past. People who I love. Who made art with me. Who joined in the dance. To them, I say thank you. To Charles and George and Colin and Buffy and Betsy and even to John. I say thank you. Thank you.

I have a friend now that is like a sister. She is someone I can call at 2am. We are both married and with kids and I can still call her at 2am. She rejoices with me and cries with me and I am blessed.

I have an amazing husband who is truly my best friend and the only person in the entire world I could have married. He makes me feel cherished. He sets me free. He keeps me safe. He takes me in his arms when he wants to calm me down. And he is always happy, always optimistic - so I do not have to be so totally steady. He is my harbor.

I have these fantastic, creative, brilliant, loving, gentle children. Sometimes, I get to hold them when they fall asleep. I get to feel them fight it restlessly, and then surrender to peace. Their breath becomes deep, and I kiss their foreheads and breathe deeply and I close my eyes and remember that they were formed inside of me, that God made these amazing people and I got to be there while he did it. I hold them while they sleep and know that they will never love me the way that I love them - that they will marry and have their own children to love in this way. And I do not even care. I just feel so blessed to have them in my arms right now. To have had the chance to love them. To have the chance to know them as children.

And the point of this is:

Yes, there is such a thing as really breaking through. There is.

There is another day. And a brighter shade of blue.

The memories do not still end up haunting you. They become just memories. Only memories but more than memories. They become bread. You can eat those memories. Eventually, the pain of them become bread, and you eat it.

You break through.

You break through.

Today while I was out I saw a note written on a napkin laying at the top of a trash can in a public restroom. It said: "We must learn to communicate without writing or speaking".

If I had been free to choose any religious denomination, I think it is very likely that I would have ended up a social gospel catholic. There is a large part of me that has always wanted to be catholic. I know all the theological arguments against Catholicism. I think a whole lot of the catholic stuff is - well - weird. Weird and silly. We have a catholic church near us that has, in its parking lot, a kind of “drive-by” shrine. I have always had an urge to go in the middle of the night and leave a loaf of wonder bread at this shrine. Just because.

Still, there is something about the idea of confession. Something about the rosary. Something about the administered communion. Something about the kneeling to pray. Something about convents and abbeys. There is something about it all that makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I should have been catholic.

I could not, of course, have been a catholic and married a priest. This would have been a big problem for me. When I was twelve, I was at church camp at Lake Aurora Christian Camp in central Florida. On the last night, I asked if I could speak at the waterfront vespers. I got up, preached a sermon and had dozens of kids come forward. I was convicted. I was ready. I knew I was going to be a preacher.

When my father came to pick me up - I greeted him with the exciting news that I had decided to follow in his footsteps and become a preacher. My father did not pause. Girls could not be preachers, he told me. I could marry a preacher, but I could not be a preacher. I was really pissed off, but I knew that my destiny must be to marry a preacher. I did marry a preacher. Some girls may have a thing for musicians or athletes, I always had a thing for ministers. This would not have been possible, had I been a catholic. Plus, I believe in birth control.

If the church is the bride of Christ - and our commitment to the church is like a marriage, then I have always wanted to have a one-night stand with the catholic church. I don’t want to leave my church or denomination, but I would still love to slip in a confession booth - just once - and say “forgive me father for I have sinned”. I would like, perhaps, to bury a Saint Christopher in the yard. I'd love to do midnight mass. Just a fling. A walk on the wild side. I know the doctrine is wrong. It just calls to me somehow.

The other night I was having dinner with my parents and they were talking about The Passion . Evidently, they had heard that the film depicts the stations of the cross. My mom asked my father and husband if they knew what the stations of the cross were (as they are both ex-catholics). Neither of them knew. I chimed in and listed the stations. Everyone got really quiet. They wanted to know why I knew the stations of the cross. This is not protestant knowledge. "Um", I lied, "I must have read it in a book." The truth is, I think the stations of the cross are cool. I looked them up at some point and memorized them, right along with hail Mary full of grace.

For a while, in high school, I was dating a catholic boy and I kept asking details about confession. He was confused by my interest - evidently confession is not something most catholics get all excited about doing. I knew from the movies that I should say “Forgive me father, for I have sinned”. But then what? Did I have to say how long it had been since my last confession? If I said “and I am not really catholic” - would I get kicked out of the confession booth? Did I have to list which sins were cardinal and which sins were not? My boyfriend at the time was not much help. I decided to ask my father.

My father seemed very open minded about most things. He had been a catholic as a young boy - so I knew he would know the procedures. Whenever I have had spiritual questions, my dad has encouraged me. Over and over again, I have been told that it is okay to question - that what God needs is more thinking Christians. He asked me to read Salinger to him. Once, he even used a quote from Franny and Zooey in a sermon. My dad would ask what the lyrics to the Sex Pistols meant. He was very cool about all my wonderings. I was shocked at his response to my desire to go to confession.

My father sat me down and proceeded to explain to me all about the doctrinal heresy and theological issues with the catholic church. Then he went on and on about confession. We do not need to go to confession. We are all priests of the Gospel. Jesus took away the need for an intermediary. You do not have to do any penance for your sins. Sins are all forgiven. Sins are all forgiven.

I listened to my father. I agreed with his argument. I believe this theology. I know that in terms of doctrine, he is right. I know that I do not need to go to confession.

But I still want to.

Today in class we were going over Romeo and Juliet . We were on the party scene and I was explaining the whole "let lips do as hands do - they pray" bit. When I got to the point where Juliet says of Romeo: "If he be married, my grave is like to be my wedding bed", I paused to explain. "So", I said, "she has kissed him once, does not even know his name, and she is saying that she would rather die than be with anyone else."

One of my students spoke up immediately.

"Damn", he said "Romeo's got game!"

It was so great.

Have I mentioned lately that I love my students?

Because I am really stressed with school - a lame exuse for a post - my cinematic opinions - feel free to add your own.

I liked the book - but I actually really liked the movie version too: Cider House Rules, Wuthering Heights (Ralph Finnes version - just because Ralph Finnes was wonderful as Heathcliff), The Little Princess, Ghost World, American Splendor, A River Runs Through It, Romeo and Juliet (both versions), Cold Mountain

The movie version was just so, so wrong: Wide Sargasso Sea, Portrait of A Lady, The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Books that I hope never get made into movies: anything by Salinger, The Secret History, The Lovely Bones

Book that is currently being made into a movie and I fear the result: Life of Pi (from the director of The Sixth Sense ) - it will be really good, or really bad; A Widow For One Year ( Irving is writing the screenplay so there may be hope - but based on what I have read it looks like this film is going to rip off The Graduate and all the really beautiful parts of the book are getting axed.)

Book I wish would get made into a movie starring Jodie Foster - Expecting Adam

Book that I wish I could write the screenplay to and have it get made into a movie starring Jodie Foster - Expecting Adam

Favorite Foreign Films: Run Lola Run, The Red, White and Blue Trilogy (favorite of all three is Blue), Amelie, Jesus of Montreal

Scariest movie scene : The scene with the box of spiders in the foreign version of The Vanishing

Most romantic movie scene : Without a doubt - when Jane and Guildford are breaking the wine glasses, talking about changing the world together in Lady Jane

I know it was cheesy but I liked it anyway: A Knight’s Tale - we will, we will, ROCK YOU

Best John Hughes Movie Soundtrack: Some Kind of Wonderful

The movie that left me speechless: The Piano

The only movies I saw more than twice in the theater: Heathers, Brazil

Last five movies I have seen (in descending order): Whale Rider, American Splendor, Lost in Translation, Sex and Lucia, Spellbound - and I liked them all

Next movies in my Netflix que: In the Cut, The Decalougue (all ten films) finally - I get to see these films.

www.churchsigngenerator.com

Here is the one I made:

I have finally realized what kind of books I like to read. What I like best is: Character based social commentary with really good descriptions of houses.


Last five books I read ( for fun, not school ) and my comments:

Drop City by T.C. Boyle - Boyle idoes not write feel good fiction, but he is an absolutely fantastic writer. He manages to write without taking sides (a feat very few writers can claim to accomplish), and trusts his reader to get him without beating them over the head with explanations. Riven Rock was an incredible book as well.

Empire Falls by Russo - I did not like it very well. This won some big prize (a Pulitzer maybe?) but I thought it was just like those Mitford books but with the word "orgasm" and a gratuitous school shooting thrown in. It was like the anti-Boyle book. Heavy-handed and preachy. Every single symbol or bit of poetry had to be carefully explained so that the reader did not miss any of the author's brilliance. Blech.

Getting Mother's Body - Suzan Lori-Parks. I discovered Parks this summer in graduate school. She writes experimental plays from an African-American perspective that are simply brilliant. This is her first novel and is an African-American homage to Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. It seemed, at the end, that Parks fell in love with her characters and gave the book an ending that was perhaps too easy. I did not mind though - I had fallen in love with the characters too.

What Was She Thinking: Notes on A Scandal - this was an interesting book. I liked the way the author developed the characters by using an unreliable narrator. It gots tons of good press - I was not as impressed by it as I thought I would be. Take it or leave it.

A Million Little Pieces - James Frey's critically lauded memoir of drug addiction and recovery. A confession: I do not normally enjoy memoirs. The authors of memoirs usually start to seem self-indulgent and whiny. This is a memoir that I actually liked.

my daughter drew a picture of me:

Observations:

There is a hidden track at the end of the Lost in Translation soundtrack. I have had the CD for weeks, but just found the track yesterday while it was playing on my computer while I worked.

Speaking of Lost in Translation, I wish Sofia Coppola had left the scene with the robot children in. I loved that scene.

I had a dream last night that I was complaining to someone that The Lord of The Rings movies were making Christians think that heaven looked like New Zealand.

I drove by a big downtown Atlanta church on Saturday that had a sign up for this week's sermon. It was called "The Passion Of The Christ: When A Friend Betrays You". I am glad to know that really, its just all about me and my very important life.

After last night's Alias, I think I am becoming a Sark kind of girl.

Links:
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The Surrealist Compliment Generator

My random compliment this morning:
"Oh how my pathological scar desires to read poems through the ruddied girth of your soul!"

My new favorite people? The ones who thought up

this idea

Enter

The Meatrix if you dare......

I have two favorite memories of Easter Sunday. This is my second favorite memory.

They began by cutting black garbage bags and taping them to the curtain rods with duct tape. The idea was to make the inside of the living room of our church feel like a tomb. Like the inside of a tomb.
Dark. Stuffy. Muffled.

We walked in and were instructed to sit in silence. Everyone took their seats and we sat in the dark. And waited. We waited with black garbage bags on the windows but we did not know what we were waiting for.

This had all been planned by one of the theater students. She was dressed as Mary Magdelene and was planning to run in and exclaim that “The tomb is empty!!!!” At this point, another student was ready in my father’s office to start The Hallelujah Chorus on a small portable record player. He had one of those 10 Best Loved Classics records and was poised and ready in the dark to start the music. More students had instructions to tear the black garbage bags down and flood the room with light at the moment that Mary exclaimed “The tomb is empty!” and the Hallelujah chorus began to play.

This was the plan.

Unfortunately, the actress playing Mary Magdelene was a method actress and had decided to prepare for her entrance by running around the block a few times. The campus police had seen her, running frantically in her long white nightgown and bare feet and had stopped her, concerned that she may be the victim of sexual assault. So, we waited in the dark for a long time. A very long time. It was stuffy. No one knew why we were waiting there, and everyone was trying to be spiritually mature since it was Easter. Still, the heat and the dark and the smell of the plastic bags was beginning to make people restless.


Finally, Mary burst through the door. “I have been to the tomb!” she declared. “It is empty!!!”. Startled by her sudden appearance, the student in charge of the record-player stumbled in the dark and put the needle down on the wrong song. Instead of the Hallelujah Chorus, The Blue Danube waltz started to play. The garbage bag rippers pulled on the bags to rip them down and the curtain rods and curtains came crashing to the floor. The intended effect of a beautiful, awe-inspiring, worshipful moment had been turned into a farce.

We were stunned. Horrified. Easter seemed ruined.

Then, with the sunlight and breeze flooding through the bare windows, with Mary Magdelene standing there in shock at what was happening, with the record player guy desperately trying to remember how to turn off the dance and get back to Hallelujah; everyone began to laugh.

There was no containing it. It was joy from being caught so off guard, joy from having our perfectly ordered plan devolve into chaos. It was the joy of forced surrender to an Easter morning that took down not just the black plastic that simulated the tomb, but the whole freaking curtain as well.

And we tried hard to get serious again. We tried hard to listen to the sermon. But we kept hearing the Blue Danube waltz in our heads, kept seeing the moment when the curtains fell to the floor, and the laughter could not be contained. It was beautiful.

On Saturday mornings, I wake up in the mood to cook. I fry bacon. I make orange-ricotta pancakes or oatmeal-honey pancakes. I play music while I cook and I sing along. I dance in the kitchen while I wait to flip the bacon.

This is unusual behavior for me. I do not normally cook. It is not that I can't cook. I am actually a very good cook. It just seems like a colossal amount of time to spend on something that will be eaten. I have other things I would rather do.

In class last week, one of my students asked me when I was going to bring in some of my "home-cooking" for them. I told him "Never", because I did not cook. He was in shock. "You don't cook?" he asked. My answer was well-rehearsed and came quickly. "I teach you guys and read books and write and make a 4.0 in graduate school", I said, "I do not cook."

I thought this was a darn good answer, but he was not satisfied. "Who cooks?" he asked. I had never really thought of that question before. It took me off guard. "Um", I stammered, "the people in the restaurant?"

He shook his head in pity. "Mrs. J", he said with authority and pride, "next week, I will have my mama make you some tamales and I will bring them to you".

I thanked him, thought of his mama spending hours soaking corn husks and seasoning fillings to make tamales for her sons, and I meant it.

A poem by Kaylin Haught:


I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes


 

I grew up hating my name. I was born an Amy during a year when every fourth female child was named either Jennifer or Amy. There were four Amys in my kindergarten class. Which meant, I had to be known as “Amy M.” I hated being “Amy M.” It was insulting. Even worse than "Amy M.", one year there were two "Amy M.'s". For the entire, miserable year, I got called by my first and middle name. My middle name is “Lou”. "Lou" is not a girls name. "Lou" reminds me of a fat, balding middle-aged man who spends alot of time in a recliner. "Lou" is the beginning of the name of a disease. I was forced to go around being called “Amy Lou”. I had to write "Amy Lou" on my papers. It was horrible.

The year I was “Amy Lou”, my mom sent away for a free iron-on kit from Chicken of the Sea tuna. I was really psyched about this - because I thought that the Chicken of the Sea mermaid was fabulous. I have always loved mermaids. I was so excited to get a mermaid shirt of my own. The kit also came with letters to add your name to the shirt. My mother put the mermaid on my little white tank top, and right above it she put the words “Amy Lou”. I was mortified. The name “Lou” was just the antithesis of all things mermaid. I hated that shirt. Unfortunately, after all her tuna-wrapper saving, my mom was very invested in the shirt and she made me wear it to school. It got lots of compliments. I recieved them with scorn and distrust.

When I got to be in high school, I started being called by the distinguishing title of “little” Amy. I was short and skinny - weighing around 90 pounds in the ninth grade - so I was invariably the smallest Amy in class. “Little Amy” I became. It sucked.

I asked my mother once why she named me Amy. I was hoping she had a really thoughtful story for me - a reason to embrace and claim my given name. Her response was “it seemed old-fashioned at the time”. Okay then. She named me the most popular name of 1970 because “it seemed old fashioned”.

What I wanted was an original name, a name that reflected the person I was. Not a name shared by ten million other girls. Not a name that had to be modified so that I could be told apart. I wanted a name like “Amina”, or “Felicity Anna”. For a while, as a very young child, I wanted the name “Tracy” because I thought it sounded like the word “erase” and I had this fantasy of having the teacher say “Tracy, could you erase-y the board?”. This was before I started kindergarten. Back when I still fantasized about school. (In my fantasy I wore a little blue and red plaid dress and got to be the teacher’s helper all the time).

By the time I got into college, things were a little better. Once I was not corralled into classes full of females born in 1970, my name became more distinctive. Now, I am usually the only Amy in a room. I like it that way. I like not having to come up with an epitaph to distinguish me from all the other Amy’s. I am more comfortable with my name. Especially since I got married and was able to drop the ghastly “Lou” .

Perhaps it is because of my own trials with my name; perhaps it is because I have literature in my blood - but I have always been obsessed with naming. I used to write stories in large part so that I could name the characters. I always loved baby name books, with all their cool names and meanings. I poured over them when I was baby-sitting. I kept lists of names to use when I wrote.

It is somewhat ironic then, that my firstborn child was named off of a road sign.

I always knew what I would name a daughter. Lily - after Colin’s mother in The Secret Garden - the woman who loved a hunchback and had him build her a locked garden of her own, and Katherine, after my grandmother - who was the youngest of five daughters whose mother died in childbirth and whose father was the town drunk. My grandmother grew up sleeping in abandoned cars, making dolls out of corn husks. Katy Miller married at sixteen and had two sons who both became preachers. My girl name was in the bag: “Lily Katherine”. Compassion. Beauty. Strength.

I put off finding a boy name until I had my ultrasound and saw the little penis there - just demanding a name. It took a while to get over the shock that I actually had a boy child inside of me. That I was growing a boy with all the boy parts and boy-ish-ness actually inside of my body. I don’t know if this is common to all women or not, but for me at least - I just always assumed that my girl body would make little girl babies. I mean I knew that women (obviously) have boy babies - it just did not feel like it was possible on a personal level to actually give birth to someone of the opposite sex. As a result, I was in denial about naming a boy.

When I started to look for a name, I discovered that the options in boy names are very limited. I did not want a popular name. I did not want a normal, everyday name. Even worse, many of the boy names that I kind of liked were being adopted and stolen by the mothers of girls. Riley, Bailey, Ryan, Zoe (Zooey) - all these were becoming known as girl names.

I turned to literature. These are the names I considered, but did not name my son: Walden, Holden, Henry (from The Secret History), Simon, and Radley with a nickname of “Boo” (you have to admit - that would have been cool - my only fear was that I felt it may doom him to being a wild partier - “Hey!!! It’s BOO!!!!!”). My pregnancy progressed. I had no name.

My husband and I were driving to Georgia from Tennessee and we were going through North Carolina. I was depressed over my lack of naming ability. I started calling out road signs “Hey, we could name him Hardees - or maybe Texaco?” - it was a joke. Then we passed a sign to a little town called “Arden”. “We could call him ‘Arden’”, I said. I paused. Wait a second. I liked the way that sounded. “Arden”. It felt right. It felt just right.

I had to look in about ten baby name books before I found it listed as a “real” name with a meaning. It meant “passionate”. I loved it. My son had a name. My son has a name. His name means “passionate”. His name is one-of-a-kind. His name is a name of rolling hills, of trees that turn colors, of green. His name is a spot between the mountains and the valleys. It bridges the distance between home and away. His name is perfect. I found the perfect name. If I give him nothing else, I have given him this.


From Margaret Atwood’s poem “Spelling”
 
This is a metaphor.
                 *
How do you learn to spell?

Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,

your first naming, your first name,

your first word.

 

When I was almost five, my parents decided that West College Avenue was not a good place to raise children. During the previous year, Ted Bundy had left a trail of fear and shock across Florida State’s campus. I had a baby brother and was getting ready to start kindergarten. The decision was made to move to a house in a more family friendly neighborhood.

I had one request. I wanted a house with a ditch. There was something mysterious and adventurous about ditches. My mother has always had a propensity for pointing out places and situations that resulted in the death of some unfortunate child. One of the stories that made the biggest impression on me was the story of two children who got caught in a huge ditch during a flash flood. These dead children and the instrument of their deaths took on a sort of mythic quality to me. I knew that I really wanted a ditch. Not one big enough to drown in, but one that I could master.

And so, we moved. We moved to a neighborhood with lots of kids. I started a public school, with lots of kids. It was the first time I had ever been around other children. I was used to the hippies. The hippies treated me like an equal. The hippies loved to join in my imagination games. The hippies engaged me in philosophical conversations. Is it even necessary to say that kindergarten did not go well for me?

I viewed the other girls with a mixture of longing and terror. I could not do cheers or those little slappy-hand rhymes all the girls did. I talked to trees on the playground. I named them and made them cakes out of dirt and leaves. I had a tendency to break into song. I already knew the alphabet. I was already reading. I hated staying in the lines. I missed my hippie friends. I really missed my hippie friends. I started to run away from home.

The first time I ran away from home, I ran to the house across the street. A retired couple lived there. The man kept model trains in the garage. Their house seemed too big for the two of them. My mother got a phone call from the woman. She said that I had knocked on the front door and asked if I could take a look at the spare room. I was sent home. My mother gave me the look I hated, the look I saw whenever I was upset. The look that said I was the great disappointment of her life, that I was difficult ; the look that said, "Why do you have to be so dramatic" ?

In addition to the ditches, at my new house, there were drainage pipes that went under the driveways. These were generally very small, about the right size for a cat to crawl through. Up the street, however, there was a place where the drainage pipe went under the road. It was a long pipe - the light at the other end was just barely visible. It was big enough to crawl through. I would spend days trying to work up the nerve to crawl all the way through this pipe. It was scary, with the sound of the cars overhead and the spiders in the middle. I would crawl really fast, and eventually I got to the point where I could make it all the way. Before long, I started running away and hiding in those drainage pipes.

I don’t know how many times I ran away. Alot. My attempts always ended the same way - I would wait and wait and wait for someone to come looking for me. No one ever came. After a while, the spiders would start to get to me; even though I would brush off the space in the ditch where I was crouched, I would begin to imagine that I felt them crawling in my hair. The dampness of the pipe would soak through my shorts and every car that stopped at the stop sign over my head would shake the pipe and I would imagine that it might just collapse at any moment. I would start to think about my mother's cautionary tale of the dead kids that got washed away in a ditch. I would crawl out, and walk home. My mother would greet me at the door. She never said a word. She never asked where I had been or if I was okay. She pretended that she hadn’t heard the slam of the front door, hadn’t heard my threat to “run away and never come back”. She just looked at me with her hard judgment of my failure to adapt, with her eyes that looked at my loneliness and hurt and labeled it fiction. Drama. Always Drama. Too much Drama. I filled her with contempt.

Eventually, I gave up. Since, obviously, no one would come looking for me, I stopped hiding in ditches. I locked myself inside my room instead. I found better ways to disappear. I read books with doors that opened to hidden worlds. I fantasized about being swallowed by holes that opened underneath me. I created a universe, underground, where I could imagine I lived. I talked to my reflection. I would close my eyes and stretch out my hand and try so hard to imagine my way through the mirror, try so hard to reach the other side. With my eyes closed, my hand reaching, my heart would skip a beat because I would think that surely I should have hit the glass by now, surely I would open my eyes and find that it was true after all - that I had found a way through the mirror to a better place. Then, my hand would hit the cold glass and I would open my eyes and I would look into my own eyes with disgust, because I had believed it would work. I really did believe I would be able to step through - and I had failed.

I do not know if my mother did me a service by trying to tame my tendency to run away. She got me to stop hiding in drainage ditches and appealing to neighbors for shelter. She taught me that if I ran, I would not be looked for.

What my mother did not do, was teach me how to be found. I eventually stopped running, but all throughout my childhood and adolescence, I never really stopped wanting to be found.

**************************************************************************************

About a year ago, I was with my daughter. She looked at me and said "Mommy, did you know that I am inside your eyes?" She had seen herself reflected back when she looked at me. I told her that I did know, that she was always in my eyes. She told me to look at her. "Are you inside my eyes too?" she asked. I looked into her eyes. "Yes," I told her, "yes, I am".

penchant

The loneliest I have ever been was about a year after I got married. My husband and I had moved to a small rural town in east Tennessee in order for him to attend seminary. It was a small seminary, with no sort of “christian community”. The town that the seminary was located in was very hostile to “outsiders” (be they Christian or not) and the running jokes at the seminary were that 1) people came there and realized they could never be missionaries because they had such difficulty adapting to the environment the school was in and 2) that the MDiv degree - which took longer to get - stood for “Masters of Divorce” and the shorter MAR degree stood for “Stay Married”.

Before we moved, I had always lived in a college town. I love living in a college town. I love the flow of ideas, the infusion of different people from different cultural backgrounds. I love coffee shops. I love having access to a theater that shows independent and foreign films. I love bookstores and outdoor cafes. I love art. Being in a town that not only lacked a university - but even lacked a Target was just about enough to push me off the deep end. I mean, yes, the mountains and the leaves were pretty - but I just felt like I was drowning.

We got a cat. It did not really help. My husband was extremely busy with seminary and worked as a waiter most nights to help pay for seminary. He was the only friend I had, and we rarely had the same schedule. Most days, I went to work in the morning and then fell asleep, exhausted from teaching all day, hours before he got off work. I was teaching at a small religious school where I had to sign a contract saying I would not wear pants or shorts in public - a school where I had high school students calmly tell me that the Native Americans were wiped out because God was passing judgment on them for worshipping false gods. I loved my students and felt like I was doing alot of good to just expose them in a very subtle way to the concepts of grace and mercy and love, but still - I was just incredibly lonely. It was the kind of lonley that came from feeling like you were invisible to everyone around you. I used to drive to the small airport and sit in the car and watch the airplanes take off for hours.

One day, I heard a plug on the local NPR station for a new singer-songwriter named Christine Kane who would be playing at the only pseudo-coffee house in town. They played a song she had written called “Love Like That” and when she sang the line “and I’d bring home every stray dog I’d find/ and my dad would say ‘Take It Back”/ All I wanted was something to call my own/ All I wanted was love like that”, I knew that Christine Kane was my kind of girl.

I went to her first concerts and was one of maybe ten people there. I was blown away by the sheer beauty of her songs. She is not just a songwriter, she is also a storyteller and spending an evening at one of her concerts makes you feel like you have spent time catching up with a beloved old friend. I bought her CD and the rest of the time that I was stuck in that small, hostile town - listening to Christine Kane always made me feel a little less lonely. Hers is the one CD that has been in my car for the past nine years - never once coming off of rotation. She has amassed quite a following and has continued to write music and plays all over the country now. Her concerts are usually packed with fans, but you can still see her performing in intimate clubs and coffeehouses - for a reasonable price. If you have a chance to catch one of her shows, I promise you that you will walk away feeling like you just made a new friend.

Tour Dates

Audio Clips from Christine’s Web Site:

Made of Steel

"as for me, I've had my demons/ beating down my own front door/ breaking bad and talking mean/ they'll wait for me for sure/ but I propose we let them in/ sit them down and raise a toast/ get them drunk and leave those demons - refuse to be the host"

The Way Clouds Do

"god bless the world - and all the ones for whom the night is long"

Everything Green

"there was rain and we danced in it" (they were actually cutting the highway this song talks about into the mountain about 15 minutes from my house)

The Way You Say Goodbye

"I tell you what/ this business of the hiding of the heart/ it might be known as letting go/ but truth be told - it tears me apart"

(no such thing as) girls like that

inspired by a mtv video. hilarious.

the thing called me a geek and said i wasn't even a "genuine hat" whatever that means

stupid old test

I am a Redhat. I'm too much of a geek to be a genuine hat of any sort. I was hoping my result would be 'white-hat' or 'black-hat', and am disappointed that those results weren't even available. I probably think the cup-holder story is funny. What Sort of Hat Are You?

I started dating the poet because he gave me a record. It was Christmas. I had been dating a neighbor of his. The boy that I had been dating was sort of an imagined victory for me. He was a cute, normal boy. I was the weird girl who wore vintage dresses and brought fresh daisies to school. Just like something out of Pretty In Pink, he had kissed me once in secret and then shown up a month later to wait for me to get off work outside of TCBY yogurt and when I did, he confessed to me that he just could not stop thinking about me and wanted to date me “for real”. A whole lot of girls wanted to date this particular guy and it felt really good to know that - daisies and all - he wanted to date me. So we went out and I tried to look past the fact that he really liked Elton John and left little balloons on my car. I tried not to dwell on the fact that he used a whole lot of hair gel and wanted to be in a boy band just like the New Kids On The Block. I tried to just enjoy the fact that, for once, I was sort of “normal by association”.

It was Christmas and my normal boyfriend had given me a really awful sweatshirt with geese on it that his sister had picked out. This other boy, the poet boy, brought me a paper bag taped shut and left it on my desk without saying a word. I opened the bag, and inside was the soundtrack to the movie Labyrinth.

For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed by stories of things lost and things found. Alice in Wonderland. Escape to Witch Mountain. The Secret Garden. I had loved the movie Labyrinth, but this was not common knowledge because I was a high school senior and Labyrinth was a movie with muppets. I stared at the album. I was speechless. I knew, suddenly, that I didn’t want to play normal anymore. I knew that somehow, this other boy knew me in a way that nobody else did. I broke up with the normal boy before the last bell rang that day and John, the poet, drove me home.

John was not like anyone I had ever been friends with. He was not a lovely, beautiful poet. He did not smoke pot or listen to Bau Haus. He was angry. His father was a cop and there was something unsettling about his house. It was always spotless, there were always guns. He had three or four brothers, but when you walked in his house it was like walking into a museum. Everyone was hushed. It was as if one wrong move would set off the flashing lights and the alarm. I never met his father. John was always in a hurry to leave.

He had a habit of driving fast. Too fast. Being with him was not like being with my friend Charles as we sat in the VW bug and lazily wandered through town with Cat Stevens reassuring us all along that “while the sinners sin, the children play”. When I was with John he mocked my hippie music. He insisted on playing hard rock music at a violently loud volume and he would drive so fast that the frame of his Ford Escort shook and he would look at me and dare me to tell him to slow down. He would dare me to be scared of him. But I just prayed silently that we would both stay alive and I let him drive. I let him try to outrun whatever it was that he imagined was chasing him.

John was brilliant, and dangerous. I had, up until this point, been a very good preacher’s daughter. I may have been an outcast; I may have hung out with drug addicts, but I, myself, was always just along for the ride. John hated this about me. He was constantly pushing me, making me feel inferior to him for my desire to be good, my longing to see the world as a beautiful place even in the face of his unfathomable rage and capacity for self-destruction. He said I was shallow, and it hurt. It hurt to be called shallow by the same person who knew you loved Labyrinth without you having to tell them - who saw that in you somehow. He got me to start smoking, but I just took tiny puffs and did not inhale. He kept daring me to really smoke and not just pretend. I told him I was working up to it.

One night, he took me downtown and lead me through an alley where there was a fire escape ladder. He lifted me up to the bottom rung of the ladder and told me to climb. We climbed onto the roof of the first building and he took me to the spot where you could hop across to the next roof, and the next fire escape. We climbed from roof to roof that way. The Florida night was warm and still and heavy and on top of the roofs, I felt like I was in a different world. It was breathtaking.

I looked down on the courtyard of a popular nightclub, and watched the patrons walk in and out with drinks in hand. I saw couples fight and dance and kiss. I gazed down at the beauty of an illuminated swimming pool on the lower level roof of a downtown hotel. I wished someone would come out and swim, the pool was almost unimaginably lovely in the still, warm night. I wished I could see a mother and child swimming in the water, the child clinging to her - it’s arms wrapped around her neck. A mother and child swimming together in the warm summer night would have made it perfect. I wanted to stay on the rooftops forever, looking down on the people living life below. I was stunned by it all -shaken silent by the beauty of being up so high where everything looked intentional and good.

John, however, was restless. I imagine for him, being up so high just made him have to fight the impulse to jump. He saw me doing my little wimpy cigarette puffing and he walked up to me, took my face in his hands, put his mouth on mine, and exhaled his own smoke deep into my lungs.

He took away the quiet beauty of the moment; he took away the romance of the kiss. This is how he left me: hurt, angry, and choking for air.

John managed to make a 1460 on his SAT even after drinking the bottle of Vodka the night before. He got “admission fee waived” applications from colleges everywhere. He never filled a single one out.

He wrote a bitter and cruel message in my yearbook.

I walked away.

Two years later, I ran into him again and we became friends. He was drinking alot, living in a tiny little apartment with a roommate that had eyes like a wolf. He was failing out of community college. I was very broken when I met him this time. I was getting ready to transfer schools and had just gotten permission to withdraw from my classes at Florida State for “mental health reasons”. Time had mellowed him; he was more sad than angry now. Time had broken me; now I was sad too.

For a few weeks before I left, we spent alot of time talking. Telling each other our stories. He apologized for having been so cruel in high school. He said that I was not shallow, that I never had been. And before I left, he gave me another present. A figurine of a cat with wings. One of the most meaningful gifts that anyone has ever given me.

The memory of him breaks my heart. I want to tell myself that he is okay - that just like me, he found his way out of the labyrinth.

I wish him well.

Wherever he is.

I wish him well.

On Saturday night, my five year old daughter ran into my room after her bath with her butterfly towel hood over her head and her arms flapping the wings. “I AM A SUPER HERO!” she announced proudly “I AM - VAGINA GIRL!”.

"You're who?" I asked, thinking I must have heard her wrong. She smiled broadly and struck a pose with her arms lifted - as if she was preparing to take flight.
"I am - VAGINA GIRL!" she declared with pride.

"Oh. Lily", I told her with all the solemnity I could muster. "You can not be a super hero called Vagina Girl". She started to protest but I cut her off.

I was thinking of her seven year old brother. They often play super heros together. These games usually end with Lily claiming victory. I was thinking of all the therapy bills for my son that I would be paying later if I allowed hs sister to run around, naked, claiming superiority in the guise of a hero called "Vagina Girl". This just could not be allowed. "There is NO super hero called Vagina Girl," I told her firmly, "go put on pajamas".

She shrugged and left the room. And I laughed.

Truth be told, she really is my hero.