Alice the astronaut

Alice was an astronaut.

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.

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.
"You are 4.6 billion years old," she would say to the bright yellow blinding light.

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!"

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.

But then, a bright day, during one time at home on this human planet, she met Jake.

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.

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.

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.

Then Alice got the call. She had to go to space again.

"I have to go to space," she told Jake.

"I cannot sustain it," he said.

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.

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.

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.

Then she learned the truth. Jake had been eaten by bears. 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???"

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?"

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.

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.

say nothing at all

Betsy met Nigel on the bay on the last day of the year. When she looked into his sea foam eyes she felt like a blanket was wrapped around her tight, trapping in the warmth, fuzzy sweet sanctuary. Nigel could not speak, and Betsy comforted him with hugs and apple pies. Her favorite times were the mornings, when Nigel’s hair was furiously frumpled, and his eyes heavy with sleep. She would kiss his face, his cheeks, his back, the curve of his shoulder, the base of his neck. “I adore you” she would say, and he would stay quiet. “If he could speak,” she thought to herself, “he would say the same.”

The bay started to go too dark, and Bets could not stay any longer. “I have to go back to Beaumont, Texas,” she thought. “But I will miss my Nigel with the sea foam eyes.” She found him and asked him to go to the bay with her for one last night before her escape away.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

Betsy went to the bay alone, and cried. And he never came to comfort her. She had not realized that he only uses his voice to hurt, and the pierce in her heart stung for years. 

an apology

So I dreamt I crawled inside of her ear and sat there in the mushy mush, until I found what I had destroyed and twisted it all around, back to the way it used to be. I looked at my clipboard and put a check mark next to “shattered” and “damaged” and “ruined” and “spoiled”. It was bad. Bad news. Not an easy job.

Skipped over some things and went back to the good stuff, the really really good stuff. (I fluffed it up a little). I put-- I’m sorry-- band-aids all around and kissed it all better. It was good to be close to her.

And when I crawled out she hugged me and told me she loves me again. 

post script

Attn: Mister Buchanan,

This letter is to alert you to the fact that you reneged on the oral contract formerly created. 

According to Section 8, B, ii: Neither party may be " roguish idle-headed hugger-mugger." 

According to my records, you have breached this agreement. Our relationship is henceforth terminated and I will be contacting my attorney about any future punitive damages.

Sincerely,

Lucie

post

Dear Mister Buchanan,

I am writing to thank you for taking the time to meet with me yesterday evening.

I quite enjoyed the delicious dinner and selection of fine wines.

Your performance and presentation was more than satisfactory.

Please contact my secretary soon- I hope we can continue to build on what looks to be a promising future together.

Best regards,

Lucie

bizarre

i had a dream my boyfriend was a dark-haired boy named daniel who had a pet meerkat and performed illegal cosmetic surgery on red-headed twins.

apéro// apropos

“My cell phone doesn’t work at my house or at the house where I work.”

“You mean, at the office where you work?” he said, peering at me over his beer.

“Oh you are making fun of my french now? Do you want to talk in english? Would that be easier for you?” I said, and gave him a little dirty look.

“No, not english. I am awful at english,” he said.

“Hello, how are you? The cat is on the table. Where is the...”
before I could finish my English lesson, he smothered me in kisses.

/pretend..

hey, do you remember the night we crawled into the coconut shell? and we kissed and kissed and kissed in the coconut milk like two little baby kittens who couldn’t stop rubbing against each other. my body isn’t warm without your body. my fingers only reach out to touch you. my tongue tastes nothing but your sweetness and salt. do you remember when we slept in the sand pail? it rubbed against our skin until we were nothing but vulnerable, nothing but innocent and pink. my body isn’t whole without your body inside of me. my ears hear only your whispers. do you remember when we crawled into the car tire? it deflated all around us and the only air we could breathe was from each others lungs, from each others chests. tummy to tummy. cheek to cheek. feet tangled.

my body aches only for your body and my body only sleeps next to your body.

25 stories

I woke up in the dark, messy rive droite flat of a tall, dark man from Strasbourg with adorable black-rimmed glasses.

He kissed me on the cheek and told me to sleep as long as I’d like, then shuffled out the door in his suit and tie and black attaché case.

( It was so cliché that if I hadn’t of lived it I wouldn’t believe it.)

I slept another hour or something (in awe of his capacity to be not only awake but dressed and out the door at 9.) I managed to find one boot, two boots, pants, bra, my favorite black sweater... drink some water from the faucet, put the champagne flutes in the sink, made the bed.

Right next to the bed, on the floor, was an issue of Playboy, the new French GQ, and an Italian dictionary. It was so cute I had to take a picture.

I left him my card.

fermented grape juice

He peeled her thin arms from around his neck. He stood. Wavy hair. He brushed his hand across his forehead. He stepped forward, turned around and smiled at her. She sunk back into the couch, cuddled in the deepest layers of blanket, and held her wine glass up to her face. She looked at him through the glass, bent and red, cloudy.

“I love you.” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Then he was gone.

a character study on a friday night

Her glasses were cat-eyed, of course.

She entered the small restaurant with a ding-ding and walked straight through to the cash register in the back. It was a thai restaurant but had a diner feel to it, the way the fluorescent lights were too bright and the only music was a soft drone of something indistinguishable coming from the kitchen.

She came in out of the drizzly rain, of course.

The short man behind the counter asked her ‘can I help you,’ of course.

She thought ‘sigh’ but said ‘I placed an order.’ The man went to grab a paper bag near the kitchen.

She was coming from work. Friday night. At long last. She was going home to her little green maple street shotgun house and her fuzzy puppy named Eliot, of course.

She looked down at the bottom of the counter where a million shoes had kicked the oddly chosen light blue paint, then over to the table of students attacking a small plate of spring rolls.

On the wall was a photograph of several preteen asian men in matching outfits with a pastel backdrop in a gold frame. Outside there was some lightening.

‘Here you are ma’am’ he said and she handed over some money out of her patchwork shoulder bag.

It was coconut soup, of course.

how un-characteristic

I see lollipop laughing light little petticoats, giggle giggle giggle and you wear that shirt so well. I see wind in the trees (all leaves, all leaves) and books upon books upon your faded leather jacket. You strut, I know it, I know you, page 576 lets study over drinks. At the risk of being lame, I claim comparative negligence the way you’ve been pulling me, on the pull, not pulling my hair but pulling my cliché. Bottom line, footnote time, you’ve turned my brain to mush and I’m an instant gratification kind of girl.

I was never one to hang on to nothing: I’ve just got to kiss you before Christmas.

understanding

“I’m just looking for some understanding” she shouted across the parking lot, at the man walking away away away. Apathy. Her own Kitty Genovese. From him. From everyone. From the women with the lettuce heads and chocolate bars. She should have known. His hair swished toward her. Waving. The lights glared on her. Harsh. Restrictive. She cried by the car, hard. She felt it. In her hands and her ankles. It was hopeless. She cried by the car. Hard. Hard. He didn’t even know who Baudelaire was.

saturday sprawl

This is America. Saturday night in a grey cinderblock basement. Bright yellow plastic cup and I smell like saffron risotto because I’ve come to the party after slaving for the man (my wallet is full of tips about to go straight to the Citgo)

the band is loud loud and shaking the bumpy walls right up to the lightbulb dangling precariously from a wire over the bass player. I tongue my cranberry juice and bob.

God I’ve known these people forever and that’s the good thing about being the one to leave, you can find the stability where you want it and when

The boys do an encore though no one calls for it. The frantic drumbeat fills the tiny room and people wander in and out from the backyard, kissing and talking and nodding to the girl in the blue dress and curls. And a light glares in from the door and the music cuts off. An officer with a southern accent thick as my ankles says

‘we need to get those cars out of the road
you’ve already got the weed going, lets clear it out’ and everyone heads for the door

on the way home its 75 miles per hour and my speakers tell me to go to vision and wake up with a stranger. I turn the radio to hip hop. because I can. and I fall asleep alone to the last five minutes of saturday night live.

valentine

everyone knows that the opposite of love is indifference.
last year it was my philosopher lover, and how he drove me crazycrazycrazy; wanting his kisses and wanting his want. now its Raphael, the Parisian masseuse, and he’s got a girl (wants a little on the side). he’s got ten years on me – his ten years on me [just call me miss midlife crisis] he pretends his friends don’t know but he parades me in front of them, right up the stairs.

I tell him I need a massage therapist; I have a hurting in my heart, to which he just kisses my forehead and says ‘tu mélange tout.’ but I’m not mixed up, I know exactly where this is going- straight to hell in a handbasket as the southern girl in me would say.

.. meditation on higher education..

They say “look around, one of the people sitting on either side of you won’t be here in 4 years”. you look. of course you look. but just looking is your first mistake. because its not just looking. and that’s what you learn. you learn about how looking was a mistake. and you can’t fix your mistake. you can look again and see what happens. you can try not to look anymore. you can look for meaning in the bottom of a martini. you can look for meaning in the bottom of many, many martinis. you can look at her eyes and their deep deep spark and crack. you can look out your window and see the light pollution from the too-big round lampposts, and fast cars and corduroy pants. you can turn pages and pages without looking at all. it is looking that is your mistake. it is looking that you have to do. its not a choice anymore. “did you look” everyone asks. everyone just wants to know how you look and what do you see. what do you see. what do you see? what do you see.

babies

“I can’t even walk around here!” she screamed. “I’m drowning in babies!” She picked up one foot, slowly, and placed it beside a screaming toddler. Her knees buckled. She tried not to fall. “Where did all these children come from anyway?!” She picked up a block of legos and tossed it to the side. As far as she could see there was nothing but screaming babies, crawling all over the ground, stretched out to the end. She didn’t know what to do with all of them. She thought about the legos, and regretted that she had not given it to a little girl, or placed it in the center of the room to allow all the infants to gender-identify themselves in a way that was pleasant. Babies. She ran a hand over her flat stomach, over her pert breasts, her slender waist. Babies. “And where have all the lovers gone?” One thousand babies from one thousand lovers. “I’ll teach them all a different language, I’ll give them all a separate religion,” she thought. “I’ll name them all after flowers, French and English ones.” She lay herself down in the babies. She lay herself down and she slept. She dreamt there were no babies. No babies.

so far

This is all I know about Dr Oliver[Oscar] OO

He was born in Russia.

His father a novelist (he existed in a book before he took his first breath). His mother a ballerina.

His mother, in a cult, believed God lived on Mars. Tragic to my Oli, but a child, she perished in a rocket headed straight to her savior. Pirouettes in space.

The book about the incident touched millions in Russia, the millions in Russia from the touching brought thousands with the two men straight to America. Do you see? Novelists love tragedy.

This shattered my love’s dreams of being an astronaut.

Sustainable agriculture in underdeveloped countries. His path in lieu of stars and (mommy)martians. My love bottles wine in linen. Africa [stamp] Asia [stamp], mais oui bien sur l’europe.

Dr Oliver[Oscar] OO and his diamond ring. He asked ‘if I lived in your tummy, would you eat enough to maintain me?’ Ahhh love.