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"