Ramadan Salah

Sometimes 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

manipulation

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. 

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.

you said
everything in your life
was happy;
everything
except for me

so i assume
everything
is perfect, now.

wonder

i wonder when i will start to look old
when my face will look like the skin on old pudding
and i'll look back at pictures of sunburt Morocco
and think
how young i was then!

i wonder when the letter will come
that tells me what is coming next
when that breeze will blow by
and take me floating off on it

i wonder when i will stop thinking of him
stop hating him
stop thinking at all
until i see pictures of violet Colombia
and think
how dumb i was then!

i wonder when the
spining will starve
and the trees will stop rustling
and the roosters crow softer

in between
all the time
and a little bit behind

I hope I look as good as you when I am 31

I am trying to remember what I thought people in their early thirties were like when I was in my early twenties.

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.

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.

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?

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.

She was like a mother to me. Looking back now, she was probably around 26 years old.

Yes

.

So I probably did think women in their early thirties were old.

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?"

"31," I said.

"Oh wow!" she exclaimed. "Me too! I thought I was the only one!"

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.

Then our other roommate came in.

"It is so funny," I said to her. "We just discovered we are both 31!"

"Really?" she said. "I hope I look as good as you when I am 31," she stated, with an aura of disbelief.

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 so old????"

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.

Except there is the matter of overnight trains to Venice.

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.

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.

This did not go as planned.

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.

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.

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.

I may not always like it, but I can handle it. I can handle it and I will. Even at 31. Lookin' good.

A boy I knew once

I will love
you
a little less
each day

Until I
don't love you
At All
anymore.

sleep

I 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.

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.

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.

In law school I would just drink.

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

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.

excerpt from a letter to Chester

February 9th, 2006

L'Ile de la Reunion

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. 

the truth is i just really really want to be kissed.

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. 

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. 

meet me in Casablanca

As soon as I stood up I knew I had made a terrible mistake.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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??"

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.

"Do you need help, miss?" came a voice from behind. It was a valet with a large trolley.

"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.

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.

The ticketing agent looked at my passport and my Peace Corps pins. He said my name in Arabic.

"Say it again?" I asked, and he did.

"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!'"

He weighed my bags and when he saw the number he glanced a me disapprovingly.

"Just this once?" I asked, with a little wink. "I promise I'll bring them back empty."

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.

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. 

I think I can do this. I have not made a huge mistake. 

Run away

Morocco

can't come soon

enough.

X.

Infatuation

I will
start by kissing
each finger tip,
each knuckle,

both palms and each thumb

I will kiss your
earlobes,
soft,
the nape of your neck

Your cheeks, your nose,
the funny bald spot in your beard.

I will kiss your
knees
your elbows,
your perfect
long thighs.

Your tummy
gets extra special attention:
tickles my nose,
my lips drag and
nibble.

I will
kiss and kiss and kiss you;
I will kiss you
until kisses seem
meaningless like a
long repeated word,
then I will kiss you
More.

to my father

if she loved you
she wouldn't
drink with you.

if you loved her
you wouldn't
have to drink
to be with her.

Spring and this

Everything inside me screams idon'twantaboyfriend

but when I think of your soft mouth and your strong arms
it takes all
my power
to keep from
pulling back my foot (half out the door,)
calling in foreversick to work
and crawling into
your bedandsmile.

but I know:
spring
and this
can't last forever.

Cubicle life

6:00 alarms buzzzzzzz
Buzzzz
Buzzz

7:00 in the car/ npr/ life goes on outside this: airplanes, landslides. Traffic lights.

8:00 arrivee', loopety loop parking garage bigger than the mcmansions I pass.

8:30 third bad office espresso, though I am wide awake: more to suppress hunger for food and a better life.

-work, type, clackclackclack, fyi, see note, work-

1:30 devour my carefully constructed salad and read the entire internet.

3:00 can I grab you for a quick meeting?

-work, clackclack, rinnnnnng, quarantine summary 0, howwasyourweekend whatareyourplansfortheweekend, work-

4:50 stare at the clock.

Tick tock

Tick
Tick

Tick
Tock

Tock

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

6:00 in the car/npr/ life has gone on around me: healthcare, russia. Traffic lights.

Crush.

I am
Blushing
And flush
With thoughts
Of your
Handsome face &
Big hands:

I want
To climb
You
Like a magnolia tree.

he

his heart is made
of marshmallow fluff and
bundles of old disposable razors

he is
tall,
but the
kind of tall that is
noticeable from a distance,
like a politician
or a sitcom father.

and on the
sunniest day
of the whole
long, icy winter
he drove her
out
to the path
under the canopy
of bare Tennessee pines,
kissed her neck-
softly-
and grabbed her waist-
not softly-

breathe in and out
rustle on the leaves
feel the air 
             on faces and fingertips

he smells like clove and honey.

devoured

he stared
at me
all night
like
a five course dinner
after a month
lost at
sea

and when he pushed
me up
against
my car
and kissed me
hard and
sweet,
i couldn't
wait
to be
devoured.

Carlotta

Carlotta Marie Green was the funniest of funny. She laughed at all the melted ice cream and cried at all the comedies. When Carlotta was 6 years old she cut off all her hair to look like the neighbor boy Frank, and when she was 14 she kissed him so hard he almost fell backward into the yellow siding of the house.

Carlotta carries a book of quotations with her doodles in the margins. Her favorite skirt is a turquoise circle with big orange rose blossoms scattered across the front. She looks into the sky and says "Hey there universe, can you gimme a break?" That is what her mom used to say. "Can you gimme a break?"

Carlotta was 6 credits away from a degree in biology, and 2 kisses away from an affair with the head of the Spanish department. His  eyes were so dark, and so calm. And he always seems ready for a new shave. But that all seems long ago. Perhaps, Carlotta ponders, it is time to cut her hair again.

When Carlotta thinks about her divorce her eyes water and her upper lip quivers. Then she looks up at that same big sky, that same big swirl of stars. "Can you gimme a break?" she asks.

the christmas present// our relationship

first an empty,
vaulted promise
from his lips

wherein i fulfill
my end
of the bargain
with kindness
and care,

and he
takes all i have
without giving
anything
in return.

role models

i admire the girls
who rest a manicured hand
over the lip of their wine glass,
shake their heads
"oh no, no thank you, that is enough"


the girl who
throws her head back,
twinkle in her eye,
and says
"I made him wait. I made him work for it."


the girls
who
don't sell everything they own
to run away
to Paris,
only to find themselves right back where they started
(The girls who
asked about health insurance, and
apartment fees, and
a 5 year plan)


the girls,
those girls,
who take as prescribed,
rinse and repeat,
and are happy waking up
everyday
next to a nice, stable man
who buys them lingerie from Victoria's Secret
and takes
them to the Cheesecake Factory on
their birthday

The girls happy
to live at 7,
a reasonable
calm
 7

i admire those girls.

i never waved away wine
or turned down cute boys
or stopped before the last piece
or let complacent mean happy

why have a glass
when you can have a a bottle-
that turns giggles into
rolling laughter,
why kiss when you can tangle together?
and why tangle when you can
make the whole
world move beneath you?

why stop at 10 when 12 may be possible?
why watch Sabrina
when you can be Sabrina?

i don't know
where my brain went wrong-
where it sprung a leak.

because asking for more more more
only works
for so long;
when more is never enough,

nothing

is the depth of a heavy heart.

sheets

i've been
waking
every morning with my
pillows on the floor,
the sheets
torn from the corners,
my legs
wrapped
in blankets and air

to
toss and turn
is a cute
bit of phrase
and my mother
says i just
need
to relax and let
myself rest-

but i think my body
is just
working
furiously
to wake up
anywhere
but [here].

resolute

 the driest memories /
 stop / create /
 fill the footprints and green heart and read /
 follow back / 
think / 
grayscale / 
forward moving salt water

get thee to a nunnery

He put on the Mamas and the Papas, which I found endearing. The sweet voice of Mama Cass sung out from the ancient black stereo. I sipped on my peppermint tea while he approached me until he was close enough to grab me hard and pull me close. The tiny tsunami it caused in my tea cup resulted in half of the contents spilling over the mug edge. "Now I smell like a candy cane," I said as I brushed away the drops from my hair and skirt.

"Where have you been?" he asked, taking the tea cup from my hand and placing it on the nightstand.

"I've been around," I said. "I've been busy."

I had been ignoring the occasional evening phone call or flirtatious text for months. But he didn't go on. He didn't mention it. And I didn't mention how I had not missed him a bit, how I didn't think of him- even then while he was in front of me, I wasn't thinking about him. I was thinking about how he needed to dust his dresser, and how the hardwood floor was cold under my bare feet, and how 2013 was ending so quickly without even asking permission.

"I am thinking of joining a convent," I told him while he raised my shirt above my head. "That way I don't have to worry about men or finding a job. Do they allow vibrators in nunneries?"

He chuckled but he didn't talk. We didn't have anything to talk about. I looked at the pulse of his neck and the slope of his shoulders and felt his tall and solid body against mine.

I fell into his evergreen sheets and let him hold me and make me feel good. And for a minute I didn't even think about 2013 ending or broken hearts or peppermint tea. And for that night at least when I reached out in my sleep there was a warm body there-- there were hands to grab me and lips to kiss me.

In the morning I stumbled to find my shoes. "Wanna come over this weekend?" he asked. "I'll think about it," I said. But we both knew I wouldn't. I kissed his cheek, saying goodbye to him and this strange, long year.

haikus about men I have slept with: set eleven

XXXI

tall dark and handsome,

oh- your fingers played me like

high school girls in spring.   

     

XXXII

terrible lover:

After, I gave you a chance -

philanthropy fails.

XXXIII

Always wanting more.

my body.- porn.- the bottle;

I was not enough.                    

for more of this series click  here 

ps: it is a little awkward to do these chronologically now that all the past has been done, but c'est la vie, right darlings?

luna// look up

the moon is on to me,
it looms
tremendous in tonight's sky
like
so many italian love songs.

the blue greys and
silver glares
chalky misty luminescence

don't look down

don't be distracted by
children's lamps and
planetariums

those flashes
are only
distractions
and pipe dreams

and this life
deserves
something authentic-
felt in your tummy and sleepy, triste soul.

firmly putting me in my place

i kept leaving my desk
to sniffle silently in
the bathroom stall,
staring at the the cold tiles.

and at the end of the day
in a moment
of weakness
and utter stupidity
i sent him a message:


"i feel like my whole body is breaking/
--
i just want someone to hold me"

and he said

"well-
if you can come over

 now, 

I can give you 

about an hour"

heartsick

i should know by now
that the ones
who fall fast and hard
are the ones who
leave you quickly and despondent;

at first you glow as bright at the sun
and [too] soon you
are not even a part of his universe.

when i told him
i felt his love
i meant it.
i could feel the warmth in my heart and
the vibrations of
his tenderness.

and then i
saw it drain
from him,
methodically and absolutely,
until I was frantically
searching for a little
beam of luminescence where a floodlight
once existed-

until the only response to
"do you even care about me?"
is a closed door,
and a collection of all of my things in
a cardboard box.

he can add
my name
to the list of things resents-
just file me next to
his family /and his exwife /and his job /his country / christmas trees/ chicken thighs/ tipping/ new orleans/ throwing caution to the wind/ taking chances/ making changes/ being loved


When asked to choose happiness or
misery he chose the blackness;
and when asked to be
with me or alone
he said bleak solitude.

dumb things

here are some dumb things to say:

when it rains, it pours

god won't give you more than you can handle

when life gives you lemons.....

those are really truly dumb things to say.

and do not say those things,

encore: i have been dealt two heartbreaks-

dangle the shiny bob,
sunshine reflecting off of the asphalt mirage,
crash all the kettles in the kitchen.

this man:
who wined me, and dined me, and kissed me all night-
then once
our passports were stamped and our
candles burned out
he can't even tell me he loves me/ cannot even tell me he misses me when I'm not there-

and i get fired from a job
before it is ever in my hands.
she rejects me- softly, i'm sure-
with the worst possible words:
why don't you go back to paris?

as if she knows what is best for me

as if he knows what is best for me.

i don't need cliches, or empty kisses, or letters of recommendation. 

this time i cannot run back home, 

and i'm too broken to run away again.

this is how you excite me

this is how you excite me:

like an 11 year old
girl,
sneaking basement episodes of Real Sex 
on her aunt's HBO:
volume barely audible
and knees shaking, trembling.

like a new
unstamped
passport,
fluttering from the envelope
with promise
and uncertainty.

like a plastic flask
of cheap vodka from
your best
friend's older brother
in the summer night park ,
surrounded by fireflies
and ungiven kisses on fiery 80 proof lips.

like the encore,
pitch black-
then the lights and the kick-drum come
up and
through your body/ your veins,
knowing it is the end
but yearning for
more vibration and delight.

like you do
when you touch me
like you do

blow

this summer
is all
rain (hard and soft)
and
hookah smoke,
perfumed.

October Break

I drank too much at the wedding. Like I had too much to drink the weekend before, and the weekend before that. Surrounded by the celebration and long banquet tables, I downed glass after glass after glass of champagne and danced under the moonlit trees, because at one time that made me happy.  One more glass to happiness.

I remember leaving the wedding but I don't remember getting to your place across town. The in-between was a blur of highway lights and your hip hop on the radio. I knew you were angry. But you wouldn't say so. You never said so. You would just look at me so heartbroken, so let down, as if I was the greatest disappointment. I believe you thought this was kind; but I wanted instead to feel the sting of your words, like I wanted to feel the sting of your hand against my thighs. But you, in your infinite gentleness, would never give me either.

I awoke in your bed in the earliest of morning hours, my deep purple bridesmaid dress crumpled on the floor, bobby pins scattered amok. The red wine stain on the sheet was a messy reminder that I was still searching for that liquid exuberance when we got home. I put my hand to my aching forehead and grasped behind me to the nightstand for a glass of water. After a year and a half in that bed I didn't need to turn the light on. I knew every foot of your studio, like I knew every inch of your body. Every centimeter of your soft lips. I don't remember if I had you that night. I probably did. I probably wanted to feel that closeness from you that only came from your body and not your mind.

You rustled from my movement and faced me. I could see your long dark eyelashes unobscured by your glasses. My face flushed and my eyes welled up with salty tears.

I thought about how scared I was that I was turning 30, and how terrified I was of being back in my hometown, and how devastated I was in my myriad of disappointments. At the time I thought you could make all that better. I thought if I loved you enough I would love myself again. I could not have loved you more, yet I was still covered in layers of heavy worry.

I cried harder, sobbing, burying my head in the blankets.
Then I made you say it. I made you give me those hard, merciless, necessary words.

 "Tell me you don't love me. Tell me you don't want to be with me anymore," I pleaded.

So you did. You said it. It was over. Of course you said you did love me but I could, perhaps for the first time, hear the ting of emptiness in those words.  I cried until I fell asleep from exhaustion, and when I awoke again a few hours later I kissed your beautiful face for the last time, held your solid, tall body in my arms for a last embrace, then walked out of your apartment and your life.

why I turn my phone off at night

alternate title:

that was 6 years ago how did you get this number?

Pretty sure it is XI. He was only brave when drunk.

silly silly silly boys. 

diving bell

in
silence of
July in the morning

I'm awake in
my
white empty sheets

feeling as
the diving bell spider -

what a life
so complicated:
the gift of the sea,

but the beach
excitedly shouts
surrender?

What Happened To Paris, prologue

If you have been so kind to read my writing with any sort of regularity over the past years you may have noticed that I spent a long time traveling back and forth to Paris, which abruptly stopped the last time I left France in March of 2011. I have decided that it has been long enough that I can write up what happened there, and why I may never be able to go back there. I do this for posterity, to clarify how I feel about it, and perhaps as a personal reference. For a long time I wouldn't talk about leaving Paris and why and how, because the sadness weighed so heavy on me the only option was to block it out of my mind and crawl into bed (or someone else's bed). Even some of my closest friends new only the vague details.

I realize based on that paragraph it may sound that something awful and dramatic happened in Paris, and while I suffered many little tragedies that is not the case. But if failure and disappointment could hold a weight I never would have been able to check my luggage coming back home. 

Since I was a little girl I dreamed of moving to France and living life as an expat there. I thought I had planned my life in such a way that it was inevitable. But life often has other plans for us. 

I have started writing the piece and I think it will be three parts, so perhaps another mini series. It may take a bit to finish putting it together but I will try to post it as I complete it. I'll put a link in the sidebar as well. 

I hope you read it and enjoy it, so that at least something good can come out of this, the most difficult time in my life. 

As usual thanks for following this little blog, even though my writing has dropped off significantly these past few years. Perhaps starting with this will inspire me to write more like I used to. 

Bisous partout  -Lucie


PS I am also updating my favorites for the last two years in the favorites list, for easy viewing

The evolution of an online dating relationship

I would have said no to you
but I have a rule
the -yes- rule,
always say yes. Cast a wide net.
In your message you sounded
arrogant,
a little self involved, and condescending.
I hate
older men
being condescending.

But yes I said-
always say yes.

My GPS led me wrongly and I was an hour
late to our date-
I almost canceled-
me: angry on I-75, to a date I didn't want, my little black dress rubbing my thighs--

yet you were so sweet and patient,
didn't even give me grief. I saw you in the light of my favorite restaurant-
you were short and needed a haircut,
a tailor, and a bit of that overconfidence you alluded to
in your short notes. Your eyes went wide and soft.

I liked it.

The next time we went
somewhere
much
too expensive,
and not even worth it-
my oysters were dry and the
chairs were too stuffy.
But when we spoke I felt
happy,
comfortable and
cool.
We went to your house and
you offered me wine,

your hand shook while you passed the glass
of dark red liquid-
'Are you ok?' I asked
'You're just so pretty' you said meekly, and
I was in.

So glad I said yes, I thought.

The next time I saw you
I had been working all day-
my feet and head
ached, and the weariness was
all over my face.
You made me dinner at your home-
the little shotgun house
that whispered New Orleans in my ears.
Was it the steak from the grill? The wine from the rack? Encapsulation of gentrification mixed with graffiti and blackberry bushes?
You told me about your ex-wife, your mother,
your DUI and your writing dreams- your best clients, your worst clients,
and your dog who died two years ago.
You kissed me with your whole body// your whole soul.

I fell into your bed like so many particles of dust.

The next date was a pub,
and you were there in
physical presence only; for two seconds on your couch afterward I had you-
I cuddled your head onto my chest and
chalked it up to
a busy day.

Then came the picnic.
I packed up the cheese, the ruby ripe strawberries,
the carefully crafted sangria, and took my car to
the soft grass of the mountain.
You seemed despondent, distracted- you leaned in to kiss me
goodbye
and I turned my head, automatically, unconsciously: your lips fell on my cheek.
We made a quick date for the next weekend.
I watched your car pull from my driveway with a spinning head-

I sent you one message
"Are you not into this anymore?"
and never heard from you again.

to bed

i had a therapist once
who told me
"so many of life's problems
could be solved
if we would just
go to bed."
how correct she was..

sweet dusk

take your pennies from the bank
down to Missy's Hanky Pank

grab a girl and twist her skirt
taste her like a sweet dessert
marachino's piled high,
any taffeta lullaby:

babe how do you stay alive
when all you do is shuck and jive
only the ocean could have more
fluidity, I know your score

 she says closely, lips to ear-
go whisk her off for cold root beer. 

things I am afraid of

standardized tests

my own body

unnecessary failure

the truth

losing what I never appreciated

being exposed as a fraud

waste

mister

sometimes
i smell popcorn
and wood polish--
i miss my marc
and our shared loneliness,
magnetic zeros and morroccan dinners-
wine and hookah
and the best porch ever.


if only

deferment

lose everything.

Lose the stamps on my passport

my own room to rent,

daily lectures and gossip and bits of chocolate and wine bottles.

I miss everything about my previous life

even all the mistakes and consequences.

Now I have my eyeliner

Gaze through the window,

Smoke pot before work and reckless emails to exes.

Self-destruction is no game for me

and yet, I am so good at this?

I see no reflection,

The body has let me down/my slanderer my body. gives away all my secrets.

Tell a friend about «Somethings must change!»

but FOUR YEARS?

I would like to say that I will try my best-

but I will not.

suburbs

I believe that time- can't be ticking- too late in the suburbs.

My heart, in fusion, in suburbia land .

I like very much Sir please help me to find -

something-mixed-anything

in the suburbs.

o

(why do i do things in the wrong order?)

lucky 13

lucky lucky lucky thirteen
where the sky is blue and the grass is green
and test after test is a simple machine 
aquamarine library routine-
girls in dresses and gloves convene,
the darkest days are not foreseen-
love me now oh lucky thirteen. 

hands

i miss you
as much
as i miss myself

though i know i must
come back to
me
before i
go back to
you.

you didn't lift
the sky from my shoulders

but i think
my hands
 may have more
strength than i know.

you are
camouflage
and proofing time ., .... pause
you are
unsent letters or perhaps
laryngitis/


i've got a map to me
and dry cough to you.

Independence weekend

It was the most sparkling fireworks display I had ever seen. I leaned into him, breathing him, his smell of lake water and beer and sunscreen. The boat was gently rocking back and forth and I slid slightly on the vinyl seating. I felt really happy, and calm. 

"That was beautiful," I said. I kissed him on the cheek. 

"Yeah I told you so," he said, then turned to speak to the boat driver. 

--

All his friends, save few, were couples. There were a few of each: the married ones, the engaged ones, and the simply in-love ones. One of the married ones invited us out to her parent's lake house for the 4th of July. Apparently among them this was a tradition. A few days of drinking, swimming, sunning, and games. He hadn't invited me the year before, when we had only been together for about 4 months or so. But this year our relationship was a growing toddler so he called me up and told me we were going and to pack a swimsuit. 

It was the hottest summer in a long time and I had been stuck at the house for the bulk of it, so I was ecstatic to go. I liked the friends, the married ones and the engaged ones and the in-love ones too. And I wanted them to like me. 

He had a habit, since we first got together, of inviting me along with them and then abandoning me post haste. The first month or so that we were dating we went to a wedding, the married-couple-lake-house wedding in fact. I knew absolutely no one there, and barely knew him. Because he was a groomsmen we stayed for the weekend, and because he was a groomsmen he spent 80% of the time with the wedding party drinking whiskey, running through the rehearsal, and generally ignoring me. This left me to mingle with complete strangers for extended hours. When it was over I felt mixed. I felt he had used me as an accessory, "a date." But I was proud that I held my own- happy that I seemed to be getting back to that social person I once was. But I was angry that he didn't appreciate my effort- that I played so well the part of "a date." I considered calling it off and chalking it up to an awkward time. But on the way home we stopped for chicken sandwiches and he apologized and I made a mental note to give him another chance. 

It was impossible not to think of that wedding while we were making the drive up into the Georgia mountains on July 3rd. But that was over a year before and I had since spent time with the friends and really enjoyed their company. They were a silly group- always laughing and cutting up. They were smart and interesting and successful. And they were all in love. And they all had a plan, it seemed. 

The lake house was fantastic, hidden in the trees with a giant staircase descending down down down to the sprawling boat house, stocked with vodka and bud light and checkers. We spent the days playing beer pong until the heat and the liquor made our heads spin, choosing then to jump from the high ledge into the cool green water of the lake. At this point I was used to his distance and knew how to handle it. When I could tell he wasn't interested in me being around I would go help the girls bring down the sandwiches for lunch or float in the gossip circle in the water. 

When night fell on the 4th the mosquitoes and guests were buzzing. The wealthy residents of the lake community were really proud of their annual fireworks shows and poured huge money into the display. They could be seen up close and personal by taking a boat out to a central part of the lake, or people could go up to the top of the mountain in the clubhouse and watch the display from afar. The boat had something like 8 places. I asked him where we were going to watch the fireworks. 

"I think you should go in the boat," he said. "You haven't ever seen them before and that is the best place to be." 

"Are you going in the boat?" I asked. 

"No, I don't think so," he replied. "I have seen them before and there are others here who haven't so I would feel bad taking a place. I'll go up to the club with the others." 

"I'll go to the club too, then," I told him. "I want to be with you." 

"You should go in the boat," he repeated, clearly annoyed. "They are really good and I think you will want to see them there." I could tell he thought I was being needy, or annoying, or unreasonable. Of course he never actually said these things- never told me when something bothered him or made him upset. Instead he would just blink his eyes a little too slowly, breathe out in a heavy and labored way, and stay quiet much too long, as if he was measuring his responses much too intensely. 

I fed on his energy and tried to explain, my own frustration coming across in my tone. "I just want to watch them with you. I don't care where we watch them. Why does that make you mad?" I asked sharply. 

"I'm not angry," he said, of course. "Look, I'll go see who is all going in the boat." He disappeared, taking all his furrow and tepidness with him. And that was how all of our "fights" were- him, clearly annoyed, blocking me out. Me, sensing the stress, overcompensating by tense coaxing. The argument, in the end, of course not being about fireworks or boats or clubhouses. 

A bit later I was called for to go to the boat. Somehow he got both our names on the short list of seats. This annoyed me even more. I didn't want the others to think I was being difficult or spoiled and I was afraid he had told them that I wouldn't get on the boat without him. And that wasn't the case at all. I just wanted to be with him, no matter where. I wanted to watch the fireworks together and see the sparkles on his face and kiss and touch and be near. I climbed down into the little speed boat with several married ones and a few engaged ones. 

The dark air flying by the boat as we made our way to the area was cold and refreshing. We were surrounded by other boats dressed in colored lights and blasting stereos. The water slushed under all the motors. But when the display started the crowd went quiet and the water went still. Every few seconds a new ball of fire would shoot up into the sky and explode all over, raining below. It was beautiful. 

I kissed his cheek. "I told you so," he said. 

And as we made our way back to the house I closed my eyes and let the humid air hit my face and turn my nose red. 

All I wanted to do was watch the fireworks with you. 

All I wanted to do was experience life with you. 

until then

i wanted all of you and you took only my hip, thumb, and right eyelash
you were my summer and i was your long weekend
your silence spoke multitudes i filled with a song

people and puddles are both shallow, and sometimes not even there::
mirage/ mirror/ me too.
next time i'll be smarter.

to do

1. write more
2. write more letters
3. write more letters to faraway people
4. write more letters to faraway people to make them closer
5. be closer

break up redux

some things i have written about being broken-hearted in the past

the news

former major organ; or american love poem

bath water

understanding

eulogy to a failed relationship

i'm breaking your monopoly on my words/ breaking with a snap/ snap

california postscript

i'm sorry i'm not

off the mark

perspectives





(research? do i learn nothing?)

anymore

i am going to trust 
that the leaves will turn red
and the election will come and go--
i will try to trust that 
the mail will need checking and 
my hair will need washing
and the made for tv movies will be bad--
i trust that tea cups will pile up
and the pies will be baked, 
though you will not be here to try them. 
i trust the world will keep turning and turning and turning, 
though its hard to know what is real 
anymore. 

come to

a summer without words? what has this world come to... 

(i feel so far away from myself.) 


( i do have about 25 drafts. should work on those)



_(leave blank if non applicable)_

summer

over educated 
and under 
experienced
is the chorus to this 
comedy.


it is summer again
and this heat
will 
melt my brain like
plastic forks
on a
hot
stove-- 


where my education
will become a puddle on the
sidewalk, 
and can no longer be a burden!