Smarter now.

May 27, 2010

Alright, alright. Reads books, asks questions. Check and check. Demanding.

She’s developed a type, she realizes. “Well, good,” she thinks. “”Now look, be smart about this. Smart means smart.”


Personal Mayday.

May 19, 2010

Pan Pan Pan

Cancel that.
All stations All stations All stations

Mayday Mayday Mayday Upgrade to Mayday
This is Mike Juliet Bravo, Mike Juliet Bravo, repeat Mike Juliet Bravo
My position is 38.1032, negative 122.6299
I am on fire and sinking
I require immediate assistance, repeat immediate assistance
I have one person, self, on board
Condition is failing, not responding to resuscitation measures
Abandoning to life raft

Do you copy that? Do you — (cut off)
Roger Roger Roger Roger?
(unintelligible–sounds like, “God! Please Wilco”) Do you copy? Out.


My brother.

May 17, 2010

My brother. My brother. My brother.

My heart is burst. My brother. Chip. My brother.

A call, at work. “I have horrible news.” My brother. My chest burst, the ceiling fell in.

I tremble in fear. My brother.

She wrote a letter and she wondered if it might be printed, folded, placed into a khaki pocket, and discovered years from now, when she and the person she addressed it to were both entombed, no longer alive except in whatever meager legacies they were able to make while they’d had hearts and limbs and functioning bodies.

She imagined the reader discovering the letter and peeling the paper back from it’s folded state, the fibers crushed and crumbling, like so much lint. Would the words hold up over time? Would heartfelt sentiments translate well, or would the reader chuckle? These romantics, circa 2010, the reader would say, voice in digital monotone. How desperately they wanted to feel alive.


Tess knows he thinks of her because she thinks of him, and there’s such a thing as string theory…vibrations of higher energy transfixed in the ether, the power of Celestine Prophecies, etc., etc. And she spends enough time in front of a crucifix, on her knees, praying for an answer and God will deliver it often in the form of prose unfolding in her head, or in the tap tap tap of her fingers against a table (an imaginary piano, that table). So many songs have been gifted to her, so many songs have been forever ruined for her.

To wit: “I will go down with this ship. I won’t put my hands up and surrender. There will be no white flag above my door. I’m in love. And always will be. And when we meet, which I’m sure we will, all that was there, will be there still. I’ll let it pass, and hold my tongue, and you will think that I’ve moved on.” That’s Dido, of course. And here’s Tess: “You coward. Was a time you’d never have let it pass. You’d never have wanted me to hold my tongue.” This ship hit sand, and moored. She’d rather have gone down into the deep–that would have been fitting, romantic. Instead she’s wrecked against some small island, the end coming through base starvation. And there are no pieces of cloth, white or red or any color at all, to wave at him now.