tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-117350912024-03-15T21:12:41.304-04:00[la vie en bleu]a portfolio of fiction, non fiction, poetry and other loose wordsBebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.comBlogger449125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-36205769660554037972023-03-22T23:07:00.004-04:002023-03-22T23:14:58.691-04:00haitkus about men i've slept with: set seventeen<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">XLVIII</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">sweet as confection,</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">but not what I needed then.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">thank god we are friends. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">L</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">I thought you were last</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">I gave everything to you</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">but stars did not sync</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-37173216910014937662023-03-22T22:58:00.001-04:002023-03-22T22:58:36.345-04:00update<p> i'm fucking happy</p><p>with my apartment in Smyna</p><p>with my cats</p><p>with my humanitarian job (that doesn't make enough money)</p><p><br /></p><p>fuck corporate law</p><p>fuck expectations</p><p>fuck reproduction</p><p>and fuck you herman</p><p><br /></p><p>I'm good.</p><p>always have been</p><p>always will be. </p>Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-9098105173069771952022-06-02T13:28:00.003-04:002023-03-22T23:13:59.262-04:00haikus about men i have slept with: set sixteen<p> XLVI</p><div style="text-align: left;">My tummy grew round.<br />You never wrote our story:<br /><i>unworn baby shoes</i>. </div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">XXXVI<br />my tree, my monkey, <br />my soul yearns for you still, Love. <br />please make the hurt stop. </div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">XLIX<br />Running to Lagos, <br />Your hands and heart were so big <br />we played house a bit. </div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-84238451158301020672022-05-31T09:21:00.002-04:002022-05-31T09:21:26.399-04:00haikus about men i have slept with: set fifteen<div style="text-align: left;"> XLI<br />distant oppression-<br />your bed in America<br />was so safe and warm. </div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">XLIV<br />your skin was like coal<br />pressed against me on the couch.<br />afternoon delight. </div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">XLII<br />Hazy Haiti days. <br />hopes and expectations are<br />drowned in a highball. </div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-60709363027000759332022-05-26T15:24:00.004-04:002022-05-31T07:36:51.486-04:00haikus about men i have slept with: set fourteen<div style="text-align: left;"> XLVII<br />You broke the rules <br />so this haiku will too. <br />Get fucked. </div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">XLIII<br />talk to me, daddy-<br />then my head and mouth were full :<br />I felt minuscule. </div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">XLV<br />Sunrise on Highland.<br />Our passion and twisted sheets. <br />(was it an affair?)</div><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">To read more of this series click </span><a href="http://brandybisous.blogspot.com/search/label/haikus%20about%20men%20i%20have%20slept%20with" style="font-size: small;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></p>Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-80492903050284012222019-06-14T23:26:00.001-04:002021-09-16T11:33:38.917-04:00Lunch in midtown: unsaidHey!! It is so nice to see you. How have you been? How is your family?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've been back from Haiti for about a year now and I'm so happy to be home! Yeah, I know, Haiti- how crazy?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What's that? Oh yeah, the earthquake. So terrible. They are still suffering. The aid following the earthquake was so mismanaged. </div><div><br /></div><div>You know what's crazy about Haiti? Like when you have a birth center, and it is the only source of maternal healthcare for thousands of women, but it is on Catholic church land and the priest that resides there is literally the worst person you have ever met in your life? Yeah it's wild. Like when you don't sleep for days on end because he cuts off access to electricity and water because you aren't paying his brides? He doesn't care if women and babies die because of his negligence, because he deserves like $50 a month just for being a priest in that village. I always dreamed of being all alone negotiating with a terrorist, totally in my job description! You know how it is. How you have to navigate the terrible relationships that have been established before you got there, and finally start to scare him straight, and it has been a year of hard work against the corruption, hours and hours face to face with an egotistical oxygen thief, and then- you get this- the new executive director comes to visit and just agrees to his bribes, without you, the first time she meets him? Yeah Haiti is wild. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So how is your new job going? How is your commute? Oh man, that is so annoying! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You know the thing about Haiti? Its like you have this staff member, who is a teacher in the midwifery school, and her daughter gives birth to this seriously disabled child? And they ignore him? You know, just like put him in corner for a couple of weeks? And he almost dies, in pain since the moment he was born? And then, you know, you find out about it, and you start to question if she should be on staff of a midwifery school when this is what she has allowed to happen in her own home. Right? Obviously. But the executive director just ignores you? So your program manager adopts this poor child, because his wife has had so many miscarriages. And you hold him, but every second he is grasping for air. His eyes are bulging. He is just this tiny little life in your hands, and he has never experienced life without suffering. And his adoptive parents are doing everything they can. But of course he dies. And you know? When you go to the funeral with the tiniest casket you have ever seen. And at the cemetery they reach into the crypt and pull out old bones to make room for it. You get it, right? Yeah, so crazy, they just throw them to the side and manhandle that little casket in there! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh you are gluten free now? I hear that is a great move. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So you know what's wild about Haiti? How you are the director of a maternal health organization, and one of your students dies, right after giving birth, the week of graduation? How your clinical director and volunteer coordinator spend all night in the hospital trying to save her, but she still just dies? Because the hospital is filthy, and has no running water, and is run by a sociopath? And the class comes to rehearse for graduation, and they find out, and their cries literally echo throughout the house where you both live and work. Wailing. Screaming. It shakes your room? That is so Haiti. And then afterwards your volunteer coordinator, who works 14 hours a day, and is 20 years old, asks to sleep in your bed with you because all she can hear when she tries to sleep is that student saying she doesn't want to die? Yeah, Haiti is wild. Oh yeah, it was graduation, so the executive director was there but she didn't do anything for the staff to try to process it. So Haiti! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So what are you doing this summer? Any plans?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well for me, I'm just working through this whole "air quotes PTSD" thing! LOL. Yeah I have been drinking a lot, and gaining weight, and kind of compulsively shopping since I've been home? Yeah you know. And like, getting into a normal hygiene routine. Yeah, having hot water is awesome. It turns out that you can eat things other than pringles, coke and rum! And apparently my new job doesn't require me to work 24/7 which is so so nice. Hahah yeah you got it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway so good to see you! Thanks for listening, haha I'm so crazy right now. Absolutely this hour went by so fast? Haha yeah you are right, its just the tip of the ice burg. Yeah, happy hour sounds great. Just text me. See you then. </div>
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Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-84095414363639528722018-05-29T00:18:00.002-04:002018-05-29T00:22:39.125-04:00haikus about men i have slept with: set thirteen <br />
XXXVIII.<br />
I wanted escape.<br />
Bus rides through the desert; and<br />
just playing pretend.<br />
<br />
XXXIX.<br />
Fast, past cafe lights<br />
<i>Freedom</i>, if just on your moto.<br />
Then we broke your bed.<br />
<br />
XLI.<br />
Your thick black hair and<br />
my multiple orgasms<br />
were squashed by culture.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">XXXVI on hold indefinitely. To read more of this series click </span><a href="http://brandybisous.blogspot.com/search/label/haikus%20about%20men%20i%20have%20slept%20with" style="font-size: small;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span>Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-8789887280949637772017-05-31T21:29:00.001-04:002017-05-31T21:29:40.215-04:00haikus about men I have slept with: set twelveXXXV.<br />
Its cool to not care.<br />
My voice broke into the phone:<br />
"You aren't a nice guy"<br />
<br />
XXXVII.<br />
Kiss me, deep and long<br />
(the iman sent you to me)<br />
once more, <i>inshallah</i>.<br />
<br />
XXXIV.<br />
Netflix and take-out.<br />
Your apartment was so dull<br />
I was distracted.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">it has been awhile since I wrote some of these. to read more of this series, click <a href="http://brandybisous.blogspot.com/search/label/haikus%20about%20men%20i%20have%20slept%20with" target="_blank">here</a></span><br />
<br />Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-46011771738174252722017-02-12T21:01:00.000-05:002017-02-12T21:01:39.614-05:00HaitiHaiti right now is<br />
clean, slippery floors,<br />
cheek pressed kisses and<br />
everything upstairs. A guesthouse<br />
that is my own,<br />
permanent hotel living.<br />
<br />
Haiti is puffs of smoke and<br />
charcoal stoves, sips of<br />
rum and bottles of bleach. Haiti is<br />
nothing, yet. Need more seconds, more<br />
steps forward and over.<br />
<br />
My heart<br />
hurts<br />
still.<br />
Will it ever stop? Will<br />
Haiti....<br />
<br />
will Haiti...<br />
<br />
I don't know.<br />
To do:<br />
Learn Kreole,<br />
then<br />
fix heart.<br />
<br />
<br />Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-10171007135691072402017-01-02T00:12:00.001-05:002017-02-16T09:03:09.989-05:00Alice the astronautAlice was an astronaut.<br />
<br />
She had long, thick black hair and twinkling eyes. She learned her own birthday when she was only 2 and a half years old. "April 2nd!" she would exclaim, with confidence and gusto.<br />
<br />
She always wanted to be an astronaut. She studied long and hard. Her black hair fell into her face over dozens of astrophysics text books, with the sun shining bright outside the library.<br />
"You are 4.6 billion years old," she would say to the bright yellow blinding light.<br />
<br />
Alice was so happy to go into space her first time. It was new and intoxicating. "You will float free up there," they would tell her. "Just like a jello mold! It is so freeing!"<br />
<br />
She loved it. She bathed in it, the feeling of being in space, in this deep void, in this eternal darkness, in this weightless expanse.<br />
<br />
But then, a bright day, during one time at home on this human planet, she met Jake.<br />
<br />
He was a lumberjack from Nebraska. Very tall, and strong, with a beard like sandpaper and horsehair. She loved him. He would always walk into the woods with beaver carcasses strapped to his belt. The beavers were lined with full, glimmering bacon strips.<br />
<br />
Alice would say "Jake, my love, please do not walk into the woods with the beaver carcasses. It is so dangerous and I worry about you!" She would then toss her black hair over her shoulder and sigh, and he would bend down and kiss her sad eyes and promise to never do it again.<br />
<br />
For months they lived in a happy utopia of love-making, meat-smoking and endless evenings under the millions of stars. Alice would point out all the constellations and Jake would cut wood for their sparkling campfire.<br />
<br />
Then Alice got the call. She had to go to space again.<br />
<br />
"I have to go to space," she told Jake.<br />
<br />
"I cannot sustain it," he said.<br />
<br />
But they both knew it had to be done. So she took off, like a bullet to the sky. She thought about Jake and about his boorish, unpolished beard. The force of the take-off was a jolt to her, unlike the many times before. She pictured his lumberjack face, his lips robbed of her kisses.<br />
<br />
She floated in space, like usual. She was familiar with the cosmic radiation. But this time, despite her weightlessness, her body felt heavy and burdensome.<br />
<br />
She called Jake, from the farthest reaches of the universe. He would answer, half engaged, and tell her he had begun wearing the beaver carcasses into the woods again. She would tell him about the mirogravity pulling her body into a million directions, and the issues she was having with her rinse-free shampoo. He did not seem interested, and much farther away than millions of miles. She would fall asleep restless, her heart feeling pulled in as many directions as her spine.<br />
<br />
Then she learned the truth. <i>Jake had been eaten by bears</i>. There was not a single scratch of him left on planet Earth besides one thumb and a shrivel of a flannel shirt. "But why did he go into the woods covered in beaver carcass and bacon???" she moaned into the metal enclosure of her shuttle. "Why would he do such a thing???"<br />
<br />
She came back to Earth and swam in the lake where they lived, and ate from the blueberry trees they planted. And when they asked her to go back to space, she said, "Will it feel more and more heavy every time?"<br />
<br />
<br />Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-53660942596161448962016-12-17T23:24:00.000-05:002016-12-17T23:24:01.500-05:00crystal ball 2017Hispaniola<br />
<br />
Ryswick<br />
<br />
<i>look closer</i><br />
<br />
coffee, cotton and...<br />
<br />
sugar?<br />
yes, sugar.<br />
<br />
needs and salt water<br />
<br />
mountain tops<br />
<br />
cruise<br />
<br />
<i>what's that?</i><br />
<br />
babies. babies everywhere.<br />
<br />
<br />Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-56342710211590530392016-12-03T23:27:00.002-05:002016-12-03T23:27:11.099-05:00renaissancei feel like writing again.<br />
<br />
i want to put more energy here. it has been too long.<br />
<br />
thanks to anyone who still reads this.<br />
<br />
i'm not dead, just a little dulled, like usual.Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-45436380706720169292016-07-27T15:11:00.001-04:002016-07-27T15:29:53.878-04:00Ramadan SalahSometimes in the daytime we would see each other on the street, hiding under the fat green leaves that line mainstreet and wide-brimed straw hats to shelter ourselves from the blazing Ramadan sun. People shuffled around us, hungry, hot and tired, from stretches of sweltering hours without food or water. I shook your hand, maybe a moment too long, and glanced a few seconds too many at your handsome face.<br />
<br />
Later you would come to my door, with your own key on your own time, and lay in my bed after the Maghrib prayer. The mosque shook and thundered with the prayer that released everyone from their fast. Every night you would pray, then eat eggs and dates and salty fried bread, then barely knock on my bedroom door before entering and devouring me with more hunger than the evening's breakfast. And that is where we would stay, unclothed, huddled together in front of my fan, as the streets filled with children and families reveling in the late hours.<br />
<br />
They were just four stories down but seemed a lifetime away from my shuttered window. I would kiss your face, bury my head in your shoulder, sometimes cry, sometimes laugh. We listened to music and made love for hours. Your skin was so soft and dark, your beard so harsh and clean. It started with a casual ease, because I was intensely sad and needed to be held. But by the end you could make my body shake like someone I had loved for years and I counted the seconds listening for the Imam to send you to me.<br />
<br />
When I first moved in to this apartment, I would joke about what a princess I felt like high above the center city streets. Sometimes I lock myself in for days at a time to get a break from the bustle of the souk and the schoolchildren endlessly coming and going from class. But I never felt more isolated than in those times waiting for you. The minute hand dragged in extremely long ticks lingering for you, knowing you were out there, knowing I was waiting.<br />
<br />
And the one who sent you to me would take you away, calling out from the minaret that it was the time to have juice and cookies and prepare for another long day of fasting. As the sun peeked back into the sky I was always alone, stretched out in my now empty bed, dreaming of your kisses on my back.Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-15727988976240986282016-04-29T12:39:00.004-04:002016-04-29T12:43:05.352-04:00manipulation<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 15.744px;">I don’t get why you think I don’t understand you as a person. I know who you are. I have spent the last 2 years being in love with you, something that I do not take for granted. You have been of tremendous help to my head and my heart, and I am grateful for every single second of love that I have felt since I met you, and all the love that you have given me during our time together. You say you don’t even know who I am anymore, but you know who I am. I am the same man that you fell in love with. The same man that ate macaroons and played ukulele for you in the park. The same man that held, kissed, and drank champagne with you in the pool. The same man that made love to you seven times in one day in the “drug den” and ate mussels with you while listening to Mac DeMarco. The same man that would tell you how you beautiful you looked every time he saw you. The same man that dry humped you at Kroger when no one was looking. The same man that swam with you in Santa Marta and ate arepas de huevo. The same man that visited you in Morocco, ate msemen, and celebrated eid-al-fitr in a tarbouche and djellaba. The same man that celebrate new year’s eve with you in Paris and ate steak frites and escargot with you. The same man that took bubble baths with you and cuddled you in bed even though you were soaking wet. The same man that wants to be your husband, and the father of your children. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-size: 15.744px;">The same man that broke your heart. And then same man that will stitch your heart back up and make you the happiest woman in the world.</span></span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
you said<br />
everything in your life<br />
was happy;<br />
everything<br />
except for me<br />
<br />
so i assume<br />
everything<br />
is perfect, now.Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-43947793927640088042016-04-23T20:05:00.001-04:002016-04-23T20:05:43.660-04:00wonderi wonder when i will start to look old<br />
when my face will look like the skin on old pudding<br />
and i'll look back at pictures of sunburt Morocco<br />
and think<br />
<i>how young i was then!</i><br />
<br />
i wonder when the letter will come<br />
that tells me what is coming next<br />
when that breeze will blow by<br />
and take me floating off on it<br />
<br />
i wonder when i will stop thinking of him<br />
stop hating him<br />
stop thinking at all<br />
until i see pictures of violet Colombia<br />
and think<br />
<i>how dumb i was then!</i><br />
<br />
i wonder when the<br />
spining will starve<br />
and the trees will stop rustling<br />
and the roosters crow softer<br />
<br />
in between<br />
all the time<br />
and a little bit behind<br />
<br />Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-87176800386789367852016-03-22T19:28:00.000-04:002016-03-22T19:28:08.498-04:00I hope I look as good as you when I am 31<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
I am trying to remember what I thought people in their early thirties were like when I was in my early twenties.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
To be honest, I don't think I knew very many people at all at that age during that time. If I did then they were probably people who hung around college kids, in which case my perception was greatly skewed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I probably thought about women in their early thirties as moms or as serious professionals. I thought they were old, I guess. Any man in his early thirties who persued me was definitely thought of as old. And creepy. Which is smart and true and accurate.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My age was definitely one of my major concerns about joining the Peace Corps. Would I be the old one? Would everyone else be white boys with dred locks fresh out of college, waving around their prehistoric basket weaving degree like they know everything in the world?</div>
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When I studied in the south of France at the age of 19, there was a married couple who also came on the same program. The husband was in school for art and wanted to take his wife with him to study abroad. Her name was Laura and she was magical. She had short brunette hair and an infectious laugh. I gravitated toward her like foam to the surface of an ocean wave. I would cry to her about my mean boyfriend back in the US, and how I missed my mom, and how humiliated I was at the store buying jambon fume with my shy French. She would then cuddle me, and serve me wine, and pour out good olive oil with pepper into a little dish for a fresh baguette. She had her bachelor's degree in social work and was married to a handsome artist. And she never made me feel silly or young for my frivolous little spells or fits.</div>
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She was like a mother to me. Looking back now, she was probably around <i>26 years old</i>.</div>
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Yes</div>
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So I probably did think women in their early thirties were old.</div>
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My roommate in Morocco at our orientation hotel and I were talking the first night of our arrival and when she put together some of my timeline she whispered, almost under her breath, "how old are you?"</div>
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"31," I said.</div>
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"Oh wow!" she exclaimed. "Me too! I thought I was the only one!"</div>
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I felt a rush of relief. I had met other volunteers in our group who were older, but just to find someone my age was like a little miracle. "She understands me!" I thought to myself.</div>
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Then our other roommate came in.</div>
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"It is so funny," I said to her. "We just discovered we are both 31!"</div>
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"Really?" she said. "I hope I look as good as you when I am 31," she stated, with an aura of disbelief.</div>
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I know she meant well. I know she was trying. But the way she said it- the way she looked at me with big eyes- the tone in her voice told me "you look so young! how are you <b><i>so old</i>?</b>???"</div>
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So I guess I need to accept that most of the people here are younger than me. And they will probably look at me like a sweet grandmother. But I can find a tribe of 30-somethings and rest knowing that my experience will be different (and in my opinion, better) because of my age.</div>
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Except there is the matter of overnight trains to Venice.</div>
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When I was younger and pretending to be a member of the new Lost Generation, galavanting around Europe without a care in the world, I would hop on trains often. The way we dealt with night trains was easy- drink enough wine that you are warm and sleepy and then wake up (hopefully) in Brussels! Or Munich! Or wherever you were supposed to go. "Why pay for a night of hotel when we can sleep on the train?" was a common philosophy.</div>
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To be fair, I am sure at that age I complained of being cramped or cold or impatient, but I remember none of it. I just remember being happy and rosy cheeked and eating up the world like a mortadella panini. So last year when I planned to visit Venice for the first time with an illfated paramour it seemed like a no-brainer to take the overnight train down from Munich, arrive awake and happy and ready to take on the canals.</div>
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This did not go as planned.</div>
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The train cars were sold out, and we did not book a sleeping car. So we attemped for about 10 minutes to squeeze into one of the six seats of the car, rubbing knees with the other passengers. Giving up quickly, we moved to the luggage car where I lay my coat on the cold metal floor and sat, shivering, listening to autobiographies on tape for the entire night while cursing my life and counting sad, tired, 30 year old sheep. The travelers who had also decided to crash there (probably without tickets) made video blogs and drank whiskey and then passed out curled together in a heap. I envied them. When the train finally arrived in Venice I said to my travel companion, "I am just getting too old for this." And I felt a little part of me die inside. I then promptly started snoring on the small banquette in the lobby of the hotel where they were preparing our room.</div>
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It is true I am not the same person I was when I slept in hostel rooms with 12 other people or hid in bathrooms to avoid train ticket fares. The question I had to ask myself then was if I was still the kind of person that would join the Peace Corps. Luckily, after many nights awake staring at the ceiling, I decided that: yes, I am still the sort of person who can join the Peace Corps.</div>
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Just because I know what being pampered feels like and in most cases I prefer it does not mean that all my rough and tumble training has fallen by the wayside. I can do everything that the newly college grad can do, though maybe not yoga or marathons, at least not as well. I know how to make the saddest apartment a lovely place to live with just a sewing kit and a vision. I know how to make great friends who will make me feel at home whenever I am with them, and I can return the favor by cooking them shrimp and grits or making art together. I know how to brush things off, like the power going out for random intervals or the shower going cold for 3 days.</div>
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I may not always like it, but I can handle it. I can handle it and I will. Even at 31. Lookin' good.</div>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-66700752674219816922016-03-09T05:26:00.001-05:002016-03-22T19:28:44.600-04:00A boy I knew once<div dir="ltr">
I will love<br />
you<br />
a little less<br />
each day</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Until I <br />
don't love you<br />
At All<br />
anymore. </div>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-59691496516815666272015-12-06T00:29:00.002-05:002015-12-06T00:29:48.894-05:00sleepI was a nervous child. When I was in grade school and I couldn't sleep, I would sit wrapped in my blanket next to my nightlight and read chapter books until my little eyes would fall closed. I would hide at the top of the stairs and watch Welcome Back Cotter and Saturday Night Live behind my parents on the couch. I didn't realize at the time that my anxiety kept me awake, that my little brain was already processing all the stress I believed I had. I worried about my little 5th grade tummy and thighs because my mother said I hadn't lost my baby fat with sadness in her eyes. I internalized all the unhappiness in my family all around me that I didn't yet understand was not normal.<br />
<br />
In high school I stayed up all night, not so unusual. I would write down all my fears in journals covered in fairies and glitter. I wrote all the time. I wrote letters I never sent to boys who broke my heart. I wrote letters to boys who's hearts I had broken. I reorganized my closet, and I wrote short stories about it. I romanticized my teenage adventures and worried I was not having enough of them. And if all else failed then I would call my friend Katie and we would watch late night infomercials together until the screens went to static and there was nothing left to sell.<br />
<br />
In college I left my sleeping boyfriend in our bed in my first ever apartment and scrubbed the kitchen floor all night because I knew our relationship was over and I didn't know what to do with that information. I fretted about my classes, and my body, and my decisions. I worried about the future and all the unknowns that would come with it. The night before the LSAT I stalked along the floor of the basement of the house where I grew up and considered changing everything and everyone and doing everything I could to assure never feeling so frightened again. But it wasn't the last time. It is never the last time.<br />
<br />
In law school I would just drink.<br />
<br />
And now I sit in my bed, listening to the morning call to prayer pour out of the mosque, seeing the first glimpses of day creeping in through my shutters, wondering what I will be doing with my life and if I really want to get married at all. Will I find a passion after this that will fullfill me emotionally and financially and and and and<br />
<br />
Will he really be the one who will become my real partner in this crazy life? When I look into his big brown eyes I want to believe I will be able to sleep, with him, forever. I just want to be able to sleep.Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-33024994896252239152015-08-28T17:48:00.002-04:002015-08-28T17:49:45.461-04:00excerpt from a letter to Chester<div style="text-align: right;">
February 9th, 2006</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
L'Ile de la Reunion</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">other than that i am eating a lot of active bacteria yogurt and perfecting the art of wearing scarves as dresses. now that we have a car in our life we are free as birds. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">the truth is i just really really want to be kissed.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">also, i am getting over my post-madagascar depression. not that i was depressed, but it was a really weird thing. like i would look at diet coke, and think about how they don't have that in madagascar, and it would make me want to cry. diet coke?! what a ridiculous idea for a starving country, or any country. anyway, that sort of thing. but i am adjusting again. its horrible, but in a way i just have to accept a lot of things about my life, because otherwise you'll drive yourself mad thinking about all the things you have and all the things other people dont have. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">oh chester, what if i don't get accepted to any law schools? oh, oh, oh. sorry, i try and try not to think about it, but that little annoying thought just always creeps into my mind, in the morning, at tea, and laying in bed at night. i am not thinking about it. i am not thinking about it. i am not thinking about it. </span></div>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-66078568607125845922015-08-24T11:09:00.002-04:002015-08-24T11:09:37.327-04:00meet me in Casablanca<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13.1999998092651px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">
As soon as I stood up I knew I had made a terrible mistake.</div>
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I was at the far end of a dirty baggage carousel in the Philadelphia airport. At my feet was a giant purple roller bag resembling a stroller for quadruplets, a massive army canvas duffel bag that had looked *just perfect* on Amazon a few weeks earlier but was now obviously the girth of a Volkswagen, and my new REI backpack filled to the brim, complete with dangling nylon sleeping bag sack that had hit against my ankles as I walked.</div>
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There was no way I was going to be able to carry all of this even the short distance from the baggage claim to the taxi by myself.</div>
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Getting my bags on the plane had not been such a problem. Jon swung the duffel bag over his broad shoulder and rolled the purple monster to the counter with ease. I let the overstuffed backpack drop to my knees and made my most convincing puppy dogs eyes, mumbling something about "books for the African children..." as the ticketing agent weighed my luggage. She avoided eye contact as she unemotionally stated "11 pounds over. That will be a $75 charge."</div>
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The purple monster was supposed to be the easy one. It was filled only with clothes and light shoes and some toiletries. But for the past 6 months I had been on a clothes-buying frenzy, spun up into a panic over what to wear in my new Islamic home. It is hard for a girl blessed with extreme decolletage to find shirts that cover just-so, and as someone who hadn't worn pants regularly in close to a decade I struggled for the right thing. I shopped and shopped and shopped. Peasant tops. Wide leg linen pants. Comfortable walking ballet slippers. And as much as I claimed to suffer replacing my circle skirted rainbow colored party dresses with unflattering, shapeless maxi skirts, it was nothing compared to the actual packing.</div>
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Because the actual packing, the actual placement of the myriad of new things bought expressly for my trip, made leaving my life and my love for 2 years entirely too real and immediate. Each time I would try to start dropping a sock or handkerchief into an empty bag I would feel the urge to crawl into a ball of mush on the ground and never leave the house, let alone the country, ever again. I was packing up until the moment I left the house on Sunday's rainy, dismal morning.</div>
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The night before I had mostly divided and packed all the things I had collected and researched and gathered with care. I weighed the bags on my old and beat up bathroom scale, so I knew they were overweight. But I just couldn't fathom pulling out some or all of the smushed objects and rejecting them from my trip. I was already too emotionally drained. "Fuck that," I thought. "Who charges a Peace Corps Volunteer for luggage anyway??"</div>
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What I had not completely considered was the small problem of being able to physically carry all of my luggage myself. An idea that was evident and pathetic as I stood in the Philadelphia airport, surrounded by luggage, lay in a bed of my own making.</div>
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"Do you need help, miss?" came a voice from behind. It was a valet with a large trolley.</div>
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"I can't do this," I said. "I can't do this," I said to myself as well. He loaded up the monsters on the cart and rolled them out to the taxi stand for me, in the freezing grey January Philly rain.</div>
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The next day, after sitting through cheesy team-building exercises and safety classes, the bellhop at the hotel loaded my wagons full of bricks onto the buses and I later grabbed a cart to wheel them up to the counter while checking into my flight.</div>
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The ticketing agent looked at my passport and my Peace Corps pins. He said my name in Arabic.</div>
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"Say it again?" I asked, and he did.</div>
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"In two years I will be saying it better than you do," I said, smiling at him. "You will see me and say 'How does that Moroccan girl speak such good English!'"</div>
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He weighed my bags and when he saw the number he glanced a me disapprovingly.</div>
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"Just this once?" I asked, with a little wink. "I promise I'll bring them back empty."</div>
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He smiled at me. "Just this once," he said as he handed me my boarding passes. I felt light without my colossal luggage as it rolled away into the mystery of the airport guts.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.1999998092651px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">I added myself to the security line to find my plane that would take me across the ocean to Morocco. And I was feeling like I can do this. </span></div>
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<br style="font-size: 13.1999998092651px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;" /><span style="font-size: 13.1999998092651px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">I think I can do this. I have not made a huge mistake. </span></div>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-83737442994252272582014-04-29T22:33:00.001-04:002014-04-29T22:33:38.567-04:00Run away<p>Morocco</p>
<p>can't come soon</p>
<p>enough. </p>
<p>X.</p>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-63459657786329282642014-04-16T10:43:00.001-04:002014-04-16T10:50:11.325-04:00Infatuation<p>I will<br>
start by kissing<br>
each finger tip,<br>
each knuckle,</p>
<p>both palms and each thumb</p>
<p>I will kiss your<br>
earlobes,<br>
soft,<br>
the nape of your neck</p>
<p>Your cheeks, your nose,<br>
the funny bald spot in your beard. </p>
<p>I will kiss your<br>
knees<br>
your elbows,<br>
your perfect<br>
long thighs. </p>
<p>Your tummy<br>
gets extra special attention:<br>
tickles my nose,<br>
my lips drag and<br>
nibble.</p>
<p>I will<br>
kiss and kiss and kiss you;<br>
I will kiss you<br>
until kisses seem<br>
meaningless like a <br>
long repeated word,<br>
then I will kiss you<br>
More. <br>
</p>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-64422628690587337122014-04-14T19:16:00.000-04:002014-04-14T19:16:13.869-04:00to my fatherif she loved you<br />
she wouldn't<br />
drink with you.<br />
<br />
if you loved her<br />
you wouldn't<br />
have to drink<br />
to be with her.<br />
<br />
<br />Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-35858717084908470252014-04-02T12:39:00.001-04:002014-04-02T12:39:44.836-04:00Spring and this<p>Everything inside me screams <i>idon'twantaboyfriend</i></p>
<p>but when I think of your soft mouth and your strong arms<br>
it takes all<br>
my power<br>
to keep from<br>
pulling back my foot (half out the door,)<br>
calling in foreversick to work<br>
and crawling into <br>
your bedandsmile. </p>
<p>but I know:<br>
spring<br>
and this<br>
can't last forever. </p>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11735091.post-66228414372332994732014-03-27T11:42:00.001-04:002014-03-27T11:42:49.877-04:00Cubicle life<p>6:00 alarms buzzzzzzz<br>
Buzzzz<br>
Buzzz</p>
<p>7:00 in the car/ npr/ life goes on outside this: airplanes, landslides. Traffic lights. </p>
<p>8:00 arrivee', loopety loop parking garage bigger than the mcmansions I pass. </p>
<p>8:30 third bad office espresso, though I am wide awake: more to suppress hunger for food and a better life.</p>
<p>-work, type, clackclackclack, fyi, see note, work-</p>
<p>1:30 devour my carefully constructed salad and read the entire internet.</p>
<p>3:00 can I grab you for a quick meeting?</p>
<p>-work, clackclack, rinnnnnng, quarantine summary 0, howwasyourweekend whatareyourplansfortheweekend, work-</p>
<p>4:50 stare at the clock.</p>
<p>Tick tock</p>
<p>Tick<br>
Tick</p>
<p>Tick<br>
Tock</p>
<p>Tock</p>
<p>5:00 go to the gym/ run for three miles while staying in exactly the same spot: realize this is a metaphor for my life</p>
<p>6:00 in the car/npr/ life has gone on around me: healthcare, russia. Traffic lights. <br><br></p>
Bebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11814495660856767858noreply@blogger.com0