Not the gurgle of the calf that dropped from Harold’s heifer weeks before, or the one eyed cat buried in the basket of felines left in the front pasture…not one of these things you felt for could outweigh the counting paces of your dried out roots, beating to the sun of yours and mine. The hush of the single blue heron’s thoughts on the pond your dad dug is enough to quiet a month’s worth of cattle calls, even if there were only two cattle. And so came the day when you told little golden Crystal that her mother was never returning to the house on the Swale and that she would have to inhabit the rope swing forever, because you thought it sounded dreamy and romantic and a thousand other words a child doesn’t know until they’re older.

None of this could quiet the misery for you. It has long since been by my side, in a blur of gray quiet silences and drawn out further than usual moments, gently securing my chin at the direst of interactions.

When that happens you will find it as awkward as hell, girl. You’ll be like, are you serious?? Are you serious right now? This shit actually happened to me? I cannot believe this is going on, because I am under control. I have all this shit figured out and those friends o’mine who think they do are all twisted as shit. I can’t believe you would actually look at me that way. What in the fuck is that look suppose to mean? Is it real?  IS IT REAL?! Of course it’s fucking real!!! They don’t even know where I came from. Seriously, they do not. My friends of friends carry rifles like lunch boxes in rear window views. They say it’ll come in handy when I can’t hold it till Wilbur’s caught. Wilbur is the big One that they’re all searching for. When my dad catches it, or Harvey, but mostly my dad, he holds it up with a large East to West swinging grin, to let the world know he found what it was he was looking for here. Which is the look we are all looking for when we come here.

You think you know a dog and then you get him out in an early morning downpour and learn a new perspective on things. Some of them behave just as you would expect. Most of them don’t. The wily ones whimper at the gate and cast you doe-eyed gazes that prove they aren’t as rascally wearing a wet suit and raindrops on their nose. The more mellow ones step out of their shells, running laps and going ape shit, especially if they’re with a sibling. In particular, Bela and Marco had a brand new sparkle to their dispositions, charging each other til one ended up bottomed out on the other’s back. They resemble something like koalas, and their owners were sure to let the whole joint know that they are in fact two of only 160-something in the world of whatever the hell breed it is that crosses a marsupial and teaches it to sit.

Then there’s the old ones. These are my favorite. They gladly bebop down the ramp and through the puddles, splashing their way to a half hour of relaxation in the great outdoors. They truly could care less that its pouring buckets with no end in sight and I’m the one with the rain gear.  They’ll sit near you, most often in the downpour or on the edge of the inlet where I stand with a roof over my head, just sniffing the air in satisfaction as freight trains roar by. Every so often you receive a kind sideways glance from their gray gentle faces, one that seems to say they’re happy to just be because they know it’s not for much longer. That’s when I step out from under cover and stand with them, letting the heavy fall pound my back and my shoulders and echo into my hood. They usually get comfortable with my presence then, if we haven’t met before, and honor me with a small gesture of trust. Most often they’ll lean in, slowly resting their drizzled heads just above my kneecap, giving me the go ahead that we can be pals. They’ll sit like that forever, thoroughly enjoying themselves as we both let our minds wander through the torrent around us. Little do they know I’m as pleased to share their company.

me: carlie and i were just hungover

and our toilet  god

bhubbird: dear me

me: wasnt working well 

bhubbird: i don’t want to hear about it

me: hahahaha

bhubbird: why would it matter?

it’s not like girls poop.

2:22 PM

me: nope

2:23 PM

me: the only things that come out of our butts are kittens and rainbows

and thats where kittens come from

the end

my end

bhubbird: hahaha

Today in math class we had a substitute instructor and she ruled. She explained word problems to us as if they were a Caribbean breeze, and Karen and I nailed all of the equations on our group exercise with plenty of time to spare. We were so pleased with ourselves that Karen exclaimed, “Lets eat a scramble!”, which we seriously considered, but then decided against since neither of us were actually hungry.

Two weeks ago was my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. I’m glad I remembered it at all, but I didn’t remember until a few days late, so I sent them a card and a compact disc of oldies music that I thought my mom would really like. I haven’t heard from them. It is disappointing because for a while I told myself they were just on an elaborate vacation to celebrate a lifetime of wedded bliss, but enough time has passed that I have reached other conclusions. Either they are just too busy to reply currently, or they have stepped it up a notch in the Jehovah’s Witnesses brotherhood and gone into seclusion because the end of the world is nigh. When I was a kid, sitting in those damn flip down chairs that had been recycled from the Creswell Cinema and were now covered in red velvety upholstery, I would actually pay close attention to the talks Brother So-and-So was giving from the stage. He would warn of signs of impending doom and quote from the book of Revelations, forecasting that there would be an uprise in natural disasters around the world signaling our final days were fast approaching. This scared the shit out of me, which was the only reason I ever listened intently. My mom would talk about how in the final days, all of God’s people would most likely have to form smaller congregations than the ones we were used to, and essentially go into hiding. At that point, none of them would have much contact with “worldly people”, which is now you and I.

I hadn’t thought much about this concept until the past few weeks that I have been trying to get a hold of my dad. And to be honest, I don’t really think that’s whats going on. But what if it is? I picture my parents, with my sister and her children, living their lives in seclusion and patiently waiting for Armageddon. I can’t help but think that if that was the heightened level of faith they had reached, wouldn’t they want to speak to me for fear that The End could occur at any time, knowing that thereafter they would never have the chance to hear my voice or see my face again?

These are the thoughts I am thinking when I am walking around campus and brushing my teeth and trying to isolate X as the variable. Which is why I’m indefinitely concerned about the well being of my mental state. However, I reason with myself quite a bit about my family. The number one reason I have come up with is that I was never happy as a Jehovah’s Witness. Never. I always felt guilt and shame, even when I didn’t know exactly what I had done wrong. So I reason that I am better off now than I ever was, even without those family ties that most everyone has and frequently take for granted. I feel strong and I feel alive. I would rather feel this intense sense of awareness at all times, knowing that if the end of planet Earth as we know it is near, be it 2012 or sooner or later, I have allowed myself to be happy. Of course happiness is different circumstances for different living things at different times, but I have felt it, often and overwhelmingly. So what more could I really ask for? Besides a scramble.

the owner of the place is standing guard, his frosty old coat speckled with morning dew a thousand times over, but his gaze as strong as you remembered from the night before. he takes his time finding the perfect handshake, half buried in the pine needles at the base of any tree, and then gently carries it in his mouth to your grasp for throwing. you are obliged to do this for some amount of time, or at least until you notice there isn’t a single sound except for your breathing and his, and the occasional swish of a doe tail. he looks up at you, past you, toward the sky, and he knows that you are closer to the stars than you were before. you stare back at his weathered face and see that both of his eyes hold planets he keeps secret because if the trip lasted too long you may decide to stay.

then you keep moving, towards the water and the open spaces. there are many branches fallen around your feet and still falling, but they aren’t coming from the trees, they’re coming from your eyes. you decide that fallen log up ahead is the best place to rest, and write with these wooden sticks you have grown. you pull out your pad and your paper and set that jug of water you didn’t realize you had been carrying at your feet. there isn’t a thing around you can see that will bother you, and you begin. every so often a tiny boat on the shoreline rumbles, just a murmur, words of bait and cast. the only other sound is the one your mind makes, of the place you thought you belonged until you left it.

its funny how out there, surrounded by elk scat and tumbleweeds and howling wind, you are able to walk as tall as ever. the weight isn’t there anymore, it hasn’t been for at least 300 miles. later you’ll return to the cabin where your friends are, and you’ll jab at the roaring fire and laugh into it’s flames because none of you care about much of anything at all. but for now its just you, and the water, and the life thats living even though you can’t see it.

But for now, her thoughts return to the small salad plate near the screen door that brimmed with tuna juice just moments earlier. She scans the area for any remnants, wishing her Assistant would rise from the large soft rectangle and refill the dish.

Her tail twitches in delight to the rhythm of her heartbeat and the gentle gurgle of her full belly. She slowly licks her black lips, pausing to savor the last bits of fish stuck to her fur.

The flavor takes her back, unexpectedly, to a time of great satisfaction. She must squint to recall, that moment….what was it? Ah, yes. Salmon. The Assistant had helped Itself to her salmon supply in the white chamber, and she chose to take matters into her own paws, nomming the feast while It stared at the image box.

The beast understands the importance of morning and night, grooming and plentiful rest, rigor and self-discipline. She does not apologize for her actions, nor is she grateful. When dusk arrives, she will retire to the shadows with her diary, painstakingly detailing the day’s events in mice blood, for future generations.

I bought Monopoly for nine dollars yesterday. I got it in my head that once I played it, all the fun I had as a kid being the dog or the top hat and loading Baltic Avenue up with those red plastic hotels would come rushing back. I haven’t gotten to find out yet.

Thursday I woke up at five am with a terrible feeling in my stomach. I sat up, touched the skin above my belly button and frowned. I know this feeling, I thought. I went to the bathroom and sat down to pee. I sat for a while, hoping the nausea would fade. I tried laying back down and then realized the sick feeling was indeed intensifying and oh god, don’t let this be what I think it is. I am going to throw up.

In fact, I threw up for eight hours from both ends of my body. The kind of cookie tossing that leaves your eyeballs pounding, clinging to your sockets for fear of breaching the contract they hold with your face. I was sweating and disoriented, and passed out on my bedroom floor because I couldn’t find the energy to move three feet in any direction.

Monday approached me. She clearly thought I had chosen to spend the day as her life-sized body pillow. She made a thousand biscuits along my back and then sniffed at my hair, grazing my cheek with her paw. Brrrraw? She cooed. “Uhhhhhnn,” I replied.

Thankfully, I have people in my life. People who’ll cover you with a second blanket and buy you more toilet paper and turn in your very first college paper that’s due at the exact same time you’re actually, dramatically, thinking it will be your last. Although now I wish I could have changed it’s title to something other than “Paws and Effect”.

THEN BREAK ALL MY MIRRORS

FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF INK

TO THE SUITCASE OF INSTANT RELATIVES

PRESS YOUR PAWS AGAINST THE GLASS

WHERE THE WATER YOUR HEAD PRODUCED LANDED.

My last day of work is December 18^th. This morning I witnessed a screaming match between my boss’ wife and our HR lady. Afterward she sped off in her Blazer, only to return 20 minutes later and whisper under her breath “I just slammed two bloody mary’s!” before starting a second fight with the boss. I was humored, but unnerved knowing the serious dysfunction of this place will continue long after I’m gone.

My health insurance is up at the end of this month if I don’t continue to pay for it through COBRA, which would be $300 a month.  I am having a ‘procedure’ done next Thursday and depending on how that goes….I have a feeling. I have a feeling I am going to rack up a giant medical tab. But what is there to do? I’m not going to give up school and keep working this shit job just so I have health insurance.  

I am imagining the knots of stress twisting in my chest. The dreams have left me with different sensations: disgust, fear, ambition, fascination. When I woke I was an hour late for work, and the morning light radiated a ginger color across my bedroom floor. I’m still scared.

MALPHAS

In medieval demonology Malphas was the grand president of hell. Malphas appeared in the form of a crow as well as a human being. He often double crossed his devotees and he spoke with a hoarse voice. Malphas had forty legions of devils at his command.

TENGU

The Tengu is a boastful winged demonic spirit. It may be completely bird like or partial human with a long nose, wings and the claws of a giant eagle. The Tengu is often associated with swordsmanship in Japanese mythology. It was said that the best martial arts teachers in the world were all tengu shapeshifters.

KERES

In Greek Mythology the Keres was a female black winged death spirit that had huge white teeth and pointed talons. They tore apart corpses and drank the blood of those wounded and dead. The Keres is the personification of death that is always present at scenes of battle.

HARPIES

In Greek Mythology Harpies were winged creatures which had bodies of vultures and the heads of women. They stole the bodies of the dead, gave off a bad smell and contaminated the food.

As I drove I decided the only way I was going to make it through the day was to pay as much attention as possible, so that my mind had no choice but to force the words into my hand through the pen to the paper. I’ve learned the only way to make these situations pass quickly is to fully engage them. This was about the time I spotted a stray dog digging through garbage behind Pizza A Go Go.  I contemplated stopping…what if this is someone’s lost dog?? What if it were me? I came to the stop light and decided I couldn’t let him get away. Parked, I walked around the side of the lot. There he was taking a giant dump, minding his own business much like I probably should have been doing.

I knelt down about ten feet from him. “Puppppyyy? Come here!” The dog bared his teeth and growled at me. I stood up. “Be nice….” My voice trailed off as he lunged forward. That guy chased me all the way down the alley back to my car. I guess some dogs don’t want to be had.

8:15 AM. I am lost in Tigard. I considered going home, back to my warm bed and Monday Meow curled up at the foot of it. Instead I answer the unknown number calling my cell phone. “Erin? It’s Colin, your _____  rep. Are you lost? Are you alright?” No. Can you tell me where I am?

Here I am. I’m settled in the corner on a hard plastic chair, with a notepad and my feet propped up. To my right sit about 50 men, filling the room with bad breath and hat hair. An overhead projector looms in front of us, manned by a small bald fellow in a bright red button-down.

About 45 minutes in I decided to keep a tally of how many times my mind wandered off, which was eleven times before twelve, and nine times from noon to three o’clock. The speaker touched on a broad range of topics including geography, diet issues, his marriage and even our solar system. And I quote:

“I had plenty of people tell me I couldn’t play college baseball. They were wrong.”

“My wife’s favorite feature on the Pro9K is the back light.” (Chortling) Making fun of your wife is cool, right? Enabling her to be so fucking uninformed that she can’t even run her own thermostat makes for one helluva industry joke, as long as it looks pretty.

“We call each other hunter-killers. We laugh all the time together.”   Wait, what?

 “Atkins is the men’s diet. You’ll probably notice I won’t be eating any of that pizza for lunch. I control my diet more than most people in the world.” You can believe the rest of us ate the shit out of that ‘za.

“White men CAN jump.”  = (

“My driveway is exposed aggregate concrete? Do you know what that means for me?”  Nobody did.

“You guys are the center of the universe…I mean isn’t Nike here?”

“Who here drinks Starbucks?” (silence) “The secret to affording a $5 cup of coffee is to have someone else buy it for you. TRUE OR FALSE?”  This was about the time I began tallying how many times he asked true or false. We reached 19 before the lunch break, and then I gave up.

“The average home where I live, in Brentwood Tennessee, the average home is $400 grand with 2 refrigerators. We golf.”  Gross.

By 3pm I was cooked. The prescription painkillers had worn off and I didn’t pick up when my boss called. Earlier in the day I had felt a twinge of guilt for attending this expensive class, knowing I will soon embark on a new endeavor and leave his Popsicle stand in the dust. But as I beelined it for the door I realized if anything, those last seven hours reiterated the fact that my exit plan has been a long time coming.

If it winds around the rock

it is gray paper mache

if it lays its white cotton body

in the pockets at the top

it is snow

if it speeds to the earth

coming instead of going

it is rain

if it somersaults

choreographed for children

it is the sea

if it hangs on your every word

it is me.

Karen and I had nice conversation over sweet potato burritos the other night, about how our friends are a great group of people that mean well and aren’t cruelly inclined. I think those magnificent people combined with my newfound positivity are laying some pretty steadfast groundwork for the years to come. There isn’t a person in my life that I can imagine being without, and up until recently I’ve always felt quite the opposite.  To the wolfpack, I love you guys.

I looked around the room, feeling intimidated by the large group. It was mostly women and teenagers, aside from the serious metal head to my right. I stared at him, wondering what his dog was like. This guy must have a dog. He also had a neck tattoo and long ratted hair. I spaced out on his shirt for a moment and then forced myself to focus on what was being said.

Five hours later, Jerry was leading my group through the inner halls of the Dog Pods. He kept repeating himself and I was agitated. He showed us how to clean out the kennels and scoop the mess into a giant flushing hole. He spoke of the proper way to get a dog out of their kennel and leash them, and the danger of not latching gates behind us. As we walked I spotted Kimmy. I remembered her from the website as one of The Great Eight; the eight dogs at OHS that have been there the longest.

She was lovely. One blue eye, one brown, sweet faced and complete with a bright scarf knotted around her neck. There were notes written by her caretakers tacked to the front of her pen, all stating how amazing she was. I drew closer and peered over the gate. She was calm and held my gaze. Her eyes were peaceful and they searched mine, seemingly asking me why she was there and if she had a chance. A lump welled in my throat, and we sat like that for a few minutes studying each other. I imagined what her life was like before she got there. I wondered how she could still be up for adoption since June, and what her previous owner had said to her upon giving her up. Did they apologize? Did they pat her head and tell her she would be better off? Or did they simply tire of her?

Kimmy contemplated me for a bit longer, all the while her expression hopeful. I didn’t need Jerry anymore to remind me why I was there.

Today when I wrote this I went to OHS’ website to find her on the adoption page but she is gone. It’s my turn to be hopeful.

Forget about the woman that cut you off twice this morning on the way to work and how fiercely you gritted your teeth and considered, for longer than you’d like to admit, considered stomping the gas and ramming the shit out of her tiny car. You will shake it off. You feel guilty now for the hatred and you are surprised by how it boiled up inside of you so quickly, but you allow yourself that feeling.

You want the afternoon to arrive when everyone else will leave except Randle down the hall, and the two of you will watch Youtube videos and drink cherry cola and put your arms behind your heads in relaxing poses.  

Randle will stretch his bum leg and talk about what the tides will be like on his fishing trip tomorrow. He will ask you when the last time you went fishing was, and you will reply the same you always do because the answer hasn’t changed since 1999. You will pretend not to notice the hole in his sweatpants because your outfit has a hole in it too, and it is, after all, Friday.

But the afternoon is still two hours away, so for now write a list for the coming months. Eat less hot sauce, order Colorado Bulldogs, stretch when you are lying down and remember to be kind. When the list is finished you will fold it in half and place it deep in your wallet, knowing the best part of forgetting it will be finding it again.

Then you decide to write some more, only this time you type the words on the screen and let them fall from your finger tips without care knowing spell check is polishing each one.  The first words come together to form a sentence that reads: You have made it through my darkest hour more than once.

Alex and I trudged through Farragut Park, past a baseball game and across the bridge covering the train yard. To our left the late afternoon sky swirled with breaks of blue and a large cluster of charcoal colored clouds. It was moving. Not the sky, but the mass of weather, in an autumn manner.

The Columbian Cemetery lies tucked beside a giant warehouse, practically unseen beneath a canopy of elderly trees. The first time we ventured there, it was nearing the witching hour on a chilly November night. On that visit we opted to drive, rolling up slowly to unknown territory.  The only sound to be heard was the crunching of our tires across the dead foliage, even though an I-5 overpass lines the west side of the graveyard.The fog curling in front of the headlights made me nervous.

“Whoa…this place is scarier than I was expecting,” I said quietly. We spent a few moments trying to focus our eyes on what could be waiting further in the dark. At least that’s what I was doing.  Then we stepped out of the car and I undressed quickly. We had hoped to snap some creepy pictures of me naked, wearing a bird mask Alex had made, but once onsite I think we were both too spooked to focus on aesthetics. The whole twenty minutes we were there, I felt as if something was watching us, lurking on the edge between darkness and light.

I smiled to myself as we walked now; sure this two mile jaunt would be much less unnerving. As we rounded the corner from Vancouver onto Columbia, traffic roared by and horns honked. We joked about how we must have looked: two misplaced girls plodding a path on an otherwise pedestrian free road.  The further we got the more uneasy I began to feel, recognizing the same sensation in my gut from our previous trek. I blamed it on the greasy factory workers leering out their windows and the distinct odor of welded metal.

Our destination certainly looked different in the daylight. Garbage lined the cast iron fencing at the entrance, and one of the massive trees had crashed to the ground destroying a few more with it. The grass was taller than before, and seemingly grabbed for our feet as we wandered.  Dusk was arriving quickly and inside the wooded area was darker than desirable.  We meandered to the back of the plots, making small talk to ignore the now very constant feeling of otherworldly presence.

“Man, this is just as scary as I remember,” I finally admitted. The look on Alex’s face said she couldn’t have agreed more. Toward the very back corner I noticed a strange square of shrubs, all trimmed and growing together in tight rows. I started to walk toward the patch and then saw a blanket, and remnants of occupancy. Alex squealed and my heart pounded in my chest. “Let’s get out of here,” she proposed, already heading back toward the front gate. I tried to be peaceful in thought and reassure myself we were alone. We read a few headstones aloud and the dates etched in stone. All in all I think we only spent twenty minutes there, just like our last visit.

As we retraced our steps back to my house, the uncomfortable pit in my stomach slowly subsided. We paused at the bridge overlooking the trains to admire the view. Alex pointed out the excitement of visiting a cemetery and the rush of adrenaline from fear, which is clearly why we are both intrigued by these places that house the dead. I like to think a graveyard provides the doorway for those who’ve passed on, to continue their journey, or not.  In any case, the Columbian Cemetery is still the creepiest one I’ve set foot in.

How you are doing can go downhill pretty quickly. Finding myself newly single, I took a day off work figuring my boss would rather I stay home than drench my desk in tears. While I was away, the cunt that sits directly across from me tried very hard to get me in trouble. Or fired? Who knows. Who fucking cares. Thankfully everyone in the office is fully aware that she’s a lunatic, and that work drama is the last thing I need in my current situation.

Saturday night I panicked. It was 3:30 am, I was absolutely plastered, and I could not find my cat anywhere. I stood barefoot in the street calling her name repeatedly, straining my ears in hope for the jingle of her collar.  My fantastic ability to worry set in and I began to imagine an assortment of horrible events that had occurred. Of course she was torn in two by those pit bulls that had been seen scouring the neighborhood. Either that or she had been bitten by a raccoon and had crawled into the bushes to gasp her last kitty breath.  Or she had gotten ran over by some other drunken asshole.  But most likely, a neighbor had noticed she wasn’t just your run of the mill cat and had catnapped her for himself.  Now she was certainly trapped in their house, doomed to live out the rest of her years wondering why I abandoned her for the bottle.  I was positive I had lost my best friend and that bad things do come in threes. Come to find out, that little shrimp was actually sawing logs in the basement, oblivious to the meltdown taking place outside.

Today came around. I had quite a large hangover on my plate, but the morning was scooting along alright. While I was waiting to pick up lunch, I got a wild hair to call my dad about a financial matter since those are the only matters that matter enough for us to interact. I had forgotten that my sister moved in with them, as per my dad’s only email of the year stating so. She answered. The two minute conversation that followed ranks with the worst I’ve had, and definitely didn’t help the five years it’d been since we last spoke. I hung up and considered barfing. Instead I walked the two blocks back to work in a daze, only to get a phone call from the one person I would have dialed immediately if it were last week and not this one. Losing seems to be the only thing that sticks around.

A Clearing in the Woods

by Thomas P. Lynch

You have come into a clearing in the woods

and want to live your life out, here, alone,

joyous and remote among the catbirds

letting the light fall on you and the shade

in hourly changing angles as a grace

endlessly descending among tree limbs

while growing in you is the will to grow

mindless of the niggling everyday

profusion of detail by which you know

uselessly the names and dates and shape of things.

After a while, you will begin to sing.

Harmless and plentiful you make the sounds.

Bent on nothing that does not bend with ease

you and your song rise in the leafy air

chancy as bass spawn in a mallard’s underwings.

The mushrooms made me nervous. I thought the water was considering taking us with it.  That morning I had finally noticed how the left and right edges of the cove arched into the ocean to form the shape of a dragon’s head and tail. We were nestled against her mountainous side and I imagined her giant sleeping belly rising and falling with each breath.

There had been a curious sea lion earlier in the day watching us from the bay. He would poke his shiny head up out of the waves and stare for a moment before disappearing into a crest. I hoped he was still out there watching us; taking breaks to snatch mussels from the tide pools.

My companions’ conversation drifted to the faces they could find in everything around us.  They spotted a Japanese soldier in the sand and a chubby woman’s face curling into the foam.  I told them I used to find faces in the ceiling of my bedroom as a child. We all agreed face finding was a sign of a healthy imagination.  Then we sat silent as if we had spoken enough words to fill the night sky. It was an extraordinary feeling for three bodies facing west.

My Jeep is half dog, half jeep. His name is Jupiter and he is looking at Melissa and I, wagging his tail, brimming with excitement. We decide to ride him to a gravel road by the entrance to the freeway. Jupiter switches back and forth from giant Malamute to 4×4 on the ride there and then speeds up as we go over dirt mounds and mud puddles. We are having a blast.

I wake up in my childhood bedroom. The chalk drawings are still scrawled across the fake wood paneling from my years of pretending to be a teacher.  I feel funny like something isn’t right. I really have to pee. I go to the bathroom, and as I situate myself I realize something is terribly wrong. My vagina has been sewn shut. I look down at my stomach and see a large incision 5 inches in length starting at my belly button that has been sewn shut also.  I feel sick to my stomach. I glance in the mirror and see that my eyes have incisions on either edge also. I quickly look away knowing my reflection is too frightening to handle.

I can hear voices down the hall and a TV blaring. I search for something sharp in the bathroom drawers and find a box knife and a book of matches. I burn the tip of the box knife to kill any germs and then try to cut myself open.  I am dizzy with nausea and disbelief, but somehow instinct has taken over. I stop. Is my stomach moving? Or is it just my imagination? The overwhelming sickness is making my hands and legs shake and I begin to give into the fear.

I think if only I can get to a hospital they will be able to correct all of this. I scramble back to my room and see my cell phone sitting on the dresser. The 911 operator has the most soothing voice. She speaks gently, asking where I am and if I can get to a safe location. I promise her I’ll try. I do not provide details of my condition, only that I need an ambulance.

I sneak down the hallway to the backdoor, knowing that if I make it outside I will be ok. I see a woman in the living room talking on the phone in front of the noisy television set. She is black with purple lips. She looks like she has been dead before.  Our eyes meet and she is surprised at first, and then lunges for me. I make it outside to my car, which is a bright blue two door Sprint hatchback that my parents had when I was a kid. I am still on the phone with the 911 operator and she assures me I will be safe once I make it home.

I woke up at two completely terrified, suffocating from the heat. I ran outside to the front porch where Monday was lounging. The night air was cool and I let myself breathe, my mind still racing from that nasty dream. When I looked up at the sky there was one huge bright star directly above me. At first I thought it was a plane, but it did not move and neither did I. I stared at it for a while until I felt normal again.

I have such high expectations of every person I come into contact with. You’d think by now I would be used to selfish disrespectful assholes but it never ceases to blow me away. Maybe I just forget. Even though we spend ten hours a day together, they don’t owe me a thing.  They are not my family.

The sun dipped low in the west and I gazed at the feathers dangling from the overhang. They danced and twisted around each other in the light so delicately it was mesmerizing. Monday followed my stare and watched with me, falling into the same peaceful reverence. We sat like this until dusk arrived.

“I want to show you something!” Monday finally said. Her tail was gently tapping the ground beside her and I grabbed at it. “Don’t. I’m serious. I’ve been PRACTICING.” she placed a lot of emphasis on the last syllable. I shrugged. “Show me then.” We were always very good at indifference.

Monday drew in a deep breath and began to concentrate. This in itself captured my attention, as she was never one to focus particularly well. As I watched she placed her front paws on the edge of the hand rail and gently pulled herself forward. She was squatting much like a kangaroo and I laughed at her furry rear end until she slowly rose on her back legs.  From there she carefully stepped forward, one paw in front of the other. “What are you…,” I trailed off.  My cat was walking on two legs.  

She grinned at me deliberately, her front teeth peeking out from her little black lips. Then she strutted in a circle, down the stairs and into the lawn.  ”You’re blowing my mind,” I murmured. Monday pointed at me with her left paw. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” wagging a claw. “Meow sing a song or something would you? I’ve got moves.” I thought for a minute. “Uhh like what?”  Monday was swishing her tail side to side and shimmying her shoulders.  She motioned at me to hurry it up.    

“Hey pretty baby with the high heels on, you’re just a product of loveliness….. I like the feelin you’re givin me, just hold me baby and I’m in ecstasy,” I began hesitantly.  

She started pumping her paws in the air and bouncing in the grass shouting, “Yeah! Oh yeah!” Monday danced this way all through the yard clapping her paws and air pumping as I sang, our silhouettes illuminated against the hazy backdrop of the night.

“The way you make me fee-el, the way you make me feel,

you really turn me on, you really turn me on,

you knock me off of my feet,  you knock me off of my feet,

my lonely days are gone, my lonely days are gone.”

There is one thing I found I couldn’t help thinking
As they pried me free with the Jaws of Life
None of this disaster would ever have happened
If I had not been driving my neighbors wife

To the Alta Loma Days Inn
Where I’d registered us as a couple with a name
I’m sure some other couple somewhere has

And the last thing I saw before falling unconscious
Was your right hand tracing a heart on my thigh
And I thought my God what an infantile gesture
and I thought my God what an indescribable high

The autumn air was sweeter than a slice of wedding cake
As I overshot the exit and I tried and failed to find the brake

If there were a chance that you or mom would read these letters I don’t think I’d be so honest.  If your eyes ever do skim these words please take them to heart.

I showed some friends how to crab a couple weekends ago. We went to our old spot in Winchester Bay out on the pier. I looked for my name carved in the post but I think it was gone. Remember when you let me use your knife to whittle away at the rotting wood? It was your hunting knife. The one you used to gut deer and cut fishing lines and clean your nails.  

When I saw you in January that was the hardest thing I’ve done in a while. Do you think poorly of me? I was on my best behavior and tried to hide my tattoo, even though it’s meant for you.  I can’t finish this. There are many things I’d like to say but it would take years for me to get there.  You are the biggest mystery in my life and I’m so afraid it’s going to stay that way.

Lucky Charms Lucky Charms – The Moldy Peaches

This is definitely my new favorite movie. Adapted from the book in 1982, Plague Dogs is about two dogs that escape from a test lab and try to survive in the English countryside. It’s said to be one of the greatest animated films of all time. Visually the movie is absolutely beautiful and the storyline will break hearts; not to mention the music is trippy as hell. Rolling a j is totally in order.

You can watch the film in its entirety here:

 The Plague Dogs

I spoke about you to my therapist once. She asked me to list traits about you that make you my mother. That was easy for me because lately I have been noticing you in myself.  I think she was writing them down.  Actually she could have been writing anything. I said you were silly, very silly. Quick to laugh, likes to dance, loves chocolate, sentimental.  Judgmental, impossible to please, hardest on yourself.

How is Dad? He looked well when I saw him. I worry about his health because of all the Rocky Road and clam sauce linguini.  Maybe he doesn’t eat like that anymore. Remember that time you brought home Café Yumm and were so excited to eat it? You ran down the steps into your bedroom and dropped it all over the forest green carpet. I liked the way you let it go even though you had your heart set on it.

I really miss you. I think I miss the hugs the most, and that empathetic face you’d make when I’d fuss. When I called the house last Sunday I felt sick to my stomach upon hearing your voice. It sounded sugary and far away. I hope you couldn’t tell I’d been drinking.  I guess I was overcome with liquid courage but when you answered I had no idea what to say.

I don’t hold it against you mom. I never did, and I never will. People have to have faith in something and I admire that yours is so strong. I just wish there were room for me.

No amount of John Darnielle or Songs:Ohia will help me comprehend how your head and my heart fight each other. If I could I’d put you in the front left pocket of my plum colored jeans and take you with me. I’d sing to you and kiss your face and hold you closer when it gets cold. We’d eat sandwiches together and I’d even buy you donuts but look away while you enjoyed them. You could get a horn like the one in your favorite Frazetta, and we’d ride a horse across the planets while I spaced out for a bit. I’d hold your hands but not for too long. Then we’d sit in tall grass and count trains passing by and tell everyone your glasses are prescription. Instead of texting you xoxo’s I’d just draw them on your arm, and Baby Mon would be furless.  

I type notes to you when you’re not around. I guess you are the only person I hope accidentally reads them. I never think you are weird even though I say so all of the time. My side of the quarrelling is always drenched in self conscious worrisome doubt about our relationship and where it stands and what you think of me and if you’re happy.  I am sorry. That day we made the cave in your bed and poked our fingers through the holes in the ocean blanket was the day I fell for you.  I am scared of saying these things.

I hope this suit don’t tear up, baby.  

“You know what sucks? Due to global warming the world’s spider population is probably going to grow, as is their SIZE. Take Wolf spiders for instance. They live an average of two years and eat meat. Yes, MEAT. Thanks to the warming of the planet, these spiders are having longer summers and thus able to consume more and grow much larger. One more thing you have no control over!”  (Not a direct quote.)

Now here I sit, palms sweating, thinking about how that spider in my basement yesterday seemed unusually large and nimble. Who’s to say these spiders aren’t going to mutate as they grow larger and live longer and spread more revolting offspring? Let’s say the Wolf spider ends up living an extra year. How much human meat does he eat in those 3 years? And how much smarter does this guy become? This is the sort of heavy shit that keeps me up at night thanks to global warming. I can’t even save the Polar bears, and now this. 

Which brings me to how it seems the human race is an experiment gone awry. If there is such a thing as a higher power that created this whole fucking mess, we are sure spinning out of control. Perhaps they are just sitting back taking notes, watching as we star in our very own reality show and slowly kill ourselves off. That way when we finally do blow up Earth they can start all over; only this time it will be very scientific, with lots of proven data.

note: click on each image to get the full fuckin’ effect.

“Redonkulous” I think this was around the time I thought donkey jokes were really funny. I kind of hate a lot about this one aside from the facial expression.

“Untitled” A narrative piece. It tells the story of how I crashed my bike and destroyed my own dinner in downtown Eugene one evening on the way to a party. The buildings were sad for me.

“Weedhead” True to life portrait of a friend’s cat. Weedhead actually had hearts for pupils. He was also quite the jittery fellow, which is noticeably conveyed in the rumpled fur. I am that good.

“Crackcorn” Undoubtedly my best work. Funny enough, Crackcorn was the first in the series. To this day when I peer into his eyes I still see God.

“The Legend” The least detailed of the five, The Legend was dedicated to two of my good friends Nathaniel and Matt. For one long summer we were inseparable. The conversation drifted and titillated, but always returned to one topic. Ryan Adams. Those two truly believed Ryan and his music to be otherworldly. Although I never agreed with this notion I did take delight in their never ending banter. We would sit for hours contemplating the deeper meaning of life, disc golf, and Ryan’s many lyrics. Those two have since moved on and lost touch but the memory lives on. And now Ryan’s banging Mandy Moore! Way to go, big guy.

My fingers are positioned above the letters, curled at the knuckles, prepared for anything. They began to type wildly. Occasionally a rogue pointer finger slips to the wrong key producing a shadowy typo. These I try to retrace with X’s. I am drunk though, and there is no consistency in my thought aside from the anger. My cheeks are burning. The sentences I am typing only make sense to me. I already know this will be tossed out tomorrow but tonight it’s all I’ve got.

A few months ago I got a lovely surprise gift; a whale songs CD. Fourteen peaceful tracks filled with whales and guitar melodies.  You can pretty much do anything to this album. Read, write, sleep, hump. It’s awesome. It also inspired me to write a song of my own.

Go ahead and try to tell me this baby Beluga isn’t smiling. Go ahead…I dare you.

whale song.

There was a time

When all I could see was free

And my world, it moved with me

I turned circles on my back

While gliding with the pack

I broke the ice with my own tail

proved to others I was truly a whale

I shined onnnnnn

While shining them on

I swam the ocean beneath me

Beneeeath my bodyyyy

I donned a cape of kelp

And lent the smaller ones my help

Because what are the fish of the sea?

If not for meeee-heeeee

(whale solo)

If you have ever written about love or acted out for love or weren’t sure if that throbbing delicious ache in the pit of your stomach was love, take an hour to listen.

The third and final act had me in a bawling blubbery mess.  I hope it reaches you there too.  

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=93

We were in Philadelphia, Lindsay and I, on the second night of our ten day East Coast vacation. It was great to see Lauren and we were really tearing it up. At least I felt like I was. By the time we left her friend’s house I was pretty much blacked out. I am not proud of this but it is true.

Apparently we went to a bar and a couple parties that I do not remember. I do remember the warehouse party and dancing with a hippy dude that kept spinning in circles. Mid-moves I realized there was not a familiar face near or far. I wandered around the building looking for someone I knew. The space was massive with many levels and rooms, or at least that’s what I recall.

Finally I ran into Lauren. Where the fuck is Lindsay? This became dire. Lauren pointed out this wasn’t an area where you run off into the night alone, so we began searching for her.

We are outside. The street lamp beside us is glowing, almost throbbing. We round the corner because I need to pee and see two guys and two girls standing there smoking. This is the part that is fuzzy. Someone begins to talk shit. Lauren and I run our mouths a little and then start walking away, but one girl hurls a bottle at us. Next she has her hand in Lauren’s bag; digging for what I’m not sure. There is shoving, and then the larger man of the two pushes Lauren to the pavement. I run up to him in some sort of defense for my friend, which is when his fist connects with my face.

I am sitting on the ground underneath the eerie light, holding my mouth. There is blood everywhere. Way more blood than necessary. Lauren is beside me yelling as the four fuckers run off down the street. People start pouring out of the party toward us and I can feel warm blood dripping down my chin. I rub my tongue on the inside of my top lip and it is split wide open, but thankfully not through to the skin. Lindsay appears from a side door, wide eyed and disheveled. “Those assholes stole my purse!” she shouts.

The next morning my lip was swollen up pretty big. My jaw hurt and my teeth were sore, but all in all I was a-ok. It was quite the experience. We do not know the circumstances surrounding the hijacked bag, or if those fuckers were also the assholes Lindsay was referring to. I did receive a text message the other day saying the dudes have been identified and are basically in for an ass beat.  

Thanks for having us, Philly.

The house was giant, each room jutting out as if it were in mid-climb of the room beside it. The siding glimmered golden in the unearthly light. I was crouched down beside a planter filled with rhododendrons. Above me churned clotheslines slowly moving to the left. There were so many lines. Dangling from the clothespins were all sizes of lingerie. They were very lacy and different pastel colors, hundreds of them bobbing with the measured movement of the line.

I stood up and stepped over the planter I had been hiding behind. There were many planters leading up toward the house, staggered beyond each other. I climbed them. The negligees skimmed my arms and back. The glare from the house was blinding at times; such golden light reflecting off the flowers and silky garments. It smelled like a hot bath. When I finally reached the door I went inside to a giant marble entryway. To my left rose an elaborate staircase and a few small elderly women dotted its steps.

Where am I? And where did all that lingerie come from?

They were smiling at me. They said the underwear belonged to the guests that were staying there. That was when I saw they were wearing lingerie too. Sea foam green and lavender nightgowns sagging off their wrinkly little bodies. This is kind of weird, I thought, but they seemed sincerely friendly.

I followed them up the stairs to a theater room. Or it was possibly a conference room, I couldn’t quite tell. I got the feeling we were going to drink tea and hang out. They led me past rows of seats placed there for viewing films. I knew this without anyone telling me so. We reached a balcony that overlooked the rhododendrons. They had grown since I’d been walking through them. They were now very tall and even lovelier than before. I sat myself in an Indian style position on the floor and began visiting with the women.

Suddenly we heard gunshots. I turned in time to see men coming towards us wearing black stockings over their faces and spraying the room with bullets. They blew away two of the three women beside me. There was more blood than necessary. I jumped over the edge of the balcony and woke up with fear in my throat.

In the back room I saw all the regulars were there, just how I remembered them. Brett playing pool in his flannel; guy with tattoo sleeves whose name I never remember propped against the wall. Ryan and his new lady friend. “I hear they just lay in bed all day long.” The other Ryan with the strange fashion sense. I usually just stare at his clothes and wonder who kisses him. We don’t talk anymore because all he ever spoke of was making out.

Tim has a giant beard now. It’s pretty cool looking. We said hello and really meant it. Rob was there too, with his fruity drinks and knit beanie clinging to his blond curls. I like looking at his face because it makes me nervous. Someone called him the giant albino Norseman once and that’s all I’ve pictured since.

Johnny had his red Levis on and a brand new haircut. He seemed happy to be where he was, holding a pool stick and nursing pints of Pabst. A girl I hadn’t seen before slowly shimmied around the pool table. Her eyes scanned all the boys to see if they were watching. I realized how hungry I was and that my bedtime had passed by an hour ago. Mckenzie sat beside me in a cute dress she got at Goodwill. “Shane got Kendall lingerie for Valentine’s day! Awwww,” We both cooed.

I leaned back and felt self-conscious. Joey was getting drunk. He measured the length of his hair with his fingers and held up his hand to show us. Rob was asking everyone who they thought the greatest rapper of all time was. Ben arrived good and buzzed, sporting a hideous purple hat. “Mark Wahlberg, obviously. I mean it’s a double entundre! ‘I’m anti druggie, my body is healthy’. See what he’s doing there? I’m anti drug, G, i.e. my body is healthy!!!” Rob and tattoo guy busted up over this. They laughed and laughed while Ben smiled triumphantly.  

I went outside to the heated patio and climbed on top of a picnic table. People were smoking and stamping their feet for added warmth. A guy I sort of know was there, being generally creepy. He has a shifty gaze and a somewhat uncomfortable presence. Last time we ran into each other he pretty much spilled his beans to me. “I gotta tell you this…its just so crazy. Man this is some really crazy shit ok? I knocked up this girl and…and she didn’t go to her abortion appointment. Like we weren’t dating or nothing you know just fucking. What am I gonna do? She says she’s keeping it. She even named it already. I cant handle this shit…I cant be a dad.” I just stared back at him trying to come up with an appropriate sentence to follow such a revelation.

Back inside, tattoo guy’s girlfriend showed up with Little Brother Kyle. Kyle is a total fox, and I think it’s obvious to everyone. But he’s someone’s younger brother. Three drinks in and I was telling myself you’re done. I wanted to eat a hot dog and said this out loud. Mack asked if it was because of so-and-so’s t-shirt. Sure enough, he had a drawing of a hot dog on his white tee. No. I am actually starving.

After that people just kept rolling in.  I didn’t even know what I was doing there anymore. It felt like family, this crew of people who can flip each other off and high five and never stop playing pool in between cigarettes.  I spilled two Simpler Times and Brandi asked me to write my number down for her. She seemed something other than drunk. JP appeared out of nowhere, grinning and slapping backs. I guess I kind of hate that guy. I hugged Matt Gilligan and left. I thought about how he lent me that Moldavite stone for clarity a few months back. How it made me feel was the opposite of how I felt.

Today is my 8th day of owning this cold. Yesterday I thought maybe this is it and I’m just going to feel this way from here on out. I think that’s how people feel when they get Lyme disease or cancer. Or maybe I’m really naïve about that sort of thing. I called the doctor’s office today for some test results and the woman on the other end had a sugary sweet voice. I imagined her sitting there, really good-looking and healthy.  She told me I’d have to wait until tomorrow when my doctor was in. I was being a huge baby and I think I even sighed in her ear. That’s the sort of behavior I find extremely rude now that I’m reflecting on it.

When you stop reading and stop writing and start spending all your time in bed watching Intervention marathons on cable while wishing you had the number to a cheeseburger delivery service you know it is time for summer to show itself and dry out everything winter has wet brained.

The woman used to be an x-ray technician and now she was a scholar. I didn’t really understand what it was she did but she was very smart. So was the man. He was a professor of some sort and spent his free time in the basement talking on Ham radio.

I remember the first time I walked up to their door. She answered, her long gray-blonde hair falling around her in waves. An intense aroma of licorice and spices hit me in the face. The house smelled delectable. Her face was kind, wrinkled with experience and laugh lines. She led me through the house and down the staircase to the basement, not before offering me a cup of tea.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs my heart beat a bit faster. In front of me was something beautiful. Eight giant bookshelves, stacked to the ceiling with books of all size. There were books lining the walls in heaping piles and magazines at my feet. To my left was a small bathroom decorated in lavender shades with even more literature strewn about. I was there to carefully and precisely inventory each book on 3×5 index cards which I would then file into a plastic cabinet.

“Hullo?” A severely gruff voice jarred me. A man appeared to my right, from a den I hadn’t noticed. He was tall with a shiny bald head and a lovely white beard. I immediately wished he were my grandfather. We met briefly and he shuffled back to his hidden room.

And so it went. Upon arrival I was always greeted with a cup of tea, usually green or fennel. Midmorning the woman would patter down the stairs with some kind of treat consisting of a fruit plate or cheese and crackers. I would sit at a small fold up table and slowly log each book. I took my time with this process, holding each work for a moment and inspecting the contents. The older ones smelled delicious, musty and long since opened. The woman had just as many books as the man. Hers were mostly topics regarding women’s sexuality and well being, radiology and modern science. His covered a broader range of subjects and languages. I loved skimming the guides to women’s sexual endeavors. I snuck off once or twice to masturbate after reading erotic excerpts. Whenever I came across novels that were set in a far off place I had to thumb through the pages, spending extra care on the words at the start of each chapter. This is where my hunger stifled. I never dared to borrow a book from their comfortable sanctuary; the idea was hardly thought of and went unmentioned for everyone involved.

The man would sit in the secret room, tuning in and out on his Ham radio for hours on end. He spoke in multiple languages to people mostly at sea. There seemed to be one Irish man he enjoyed visiting with in particular. I think they had taught together in years past. They discussed how the waters were for his friend, the weather and philosophy. It sounded as if most of his conversation was lighthearted but on occasion he took to Morse code and a more serious air.

At lunch time the woman would call us upstairs for an elaborate meal. Pork chops with rosemary mashed potatoes and steamed spinach. Or lamb stew with walnut salad. Once I think she even made a pot roast. This was an excruciatingly pleasant environment to find one’s self in. I enjoyed the time I spent there, daydreaming in my own small world over passage and text.

One foggy Tuesday when the dew hung low on the tree branches I was coming up the start of the gravel road and took notice of my surroundings. To the left sat a run down single wide trailer with garbage blown about the grass clearing. I thought I recalled it being inhabited the week before. As I passed by a small kitten darted from under the trailer and paused to stare, obviously more than distraught. I continued on my way to carry out the day’s routine but couldn’t get the kitten out of my mind. Did someone abandon her there? Was she feral? Perhaps she belonged to the neighbors.

Hours later on my way home I slowly rolled past the same trailer hoping to catch a glimpse of the tiny animal. This time the kitten was sitting out in the grass and as I approached she ran towards the car. I had to stop. Before I’d opened the door all the way she was at my feet meowing profusely. The poor girl was skin and bones once I saw her up close. I scooped her into my arms and she purred loudly, all the while crying. I scrounged around in my car for anything edible and produced a ketchup packet. She eagerly lapped it up and it all became very clear. I wasn’t about to leave her there to starve or be eaten by coyotes. I thought for a moment while she burrowed into my jacket. Monday. Mondays are days you most likely need cheered up, and she seemed just the creature to handle such a task. She was mine and I was hers and that is how we came to be.

wow. my heart played the drums. it was saturday night. nothing was impossible is how i felt. so there i sat on my homie’s couch, holding drugs closer. they do not confuse me for what they come as. i know what will arrive. a spinning room and friendship squared and fear skirting your chest. that is all alright with me.

i wrote that paragraph last night after i went to bed. i swear i was sleeping. the first sentence just kept making loops in my mind until i fumbled around in the dark for something to write with. when i read it this morning i was somewhat entertained.