For those of you who have been keeping up with your short form bloggers we apologize, as we have both had serious computer troubles and have additionally been traveling. I'm back in the country now and Hula's making her way to the states as I type. We'll be back online soon, and better than ever!
love,
MeanJean and Hula
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
On Posture
I can tell by his walk. He’ll arrive home late to count steps in his head. One, two, three, one two, one. He smells like Crest and tonic.
I can also tell by the pattern of his feet. He almost shuffles and he’ll be singing rock. Sometimes he says nothing, and sometimes too much. He gets angry when I purse my lips. He’ll scream and I’ll scream and soon he’s saying ‘you don’t know who I am, you made me this way you bitch, you fucking bitch, you stupid fucking bitch!’ I cry, I kick, and I especially yell back. Get away from me! I’m leaving, I’m leaving right now! I’ll pull on sweat pants and run from room to room looking for my shoes.
Sometimes he’ll follow me, stamping his feet. ‘Go! Go! You’ll never go! You’ll never leave!’ And when I leave, he pulls his arms out- big massive arms, gorilla’s hands. I duck and sprint. Most times he’ll push me against the wall so hard that I’ll bruise. He’ll leave me there to run and block the doorway. Sometimes he laughs, a sad, low laugh, and how I scream! ‘I’ll call the police. I’ll call them on you. I’ll tell them to take you away!’ If my roommates hear, and they always hear, they’ll look at the doorway, me on the floor, and return to their room. The next day they’ll tell me how horrible he is, and why am I with him, and there has to be something better for you out there?
Mostly, I don’t know how to quiet him. How to sit him still so that I can take a drive- a long one smoking cigarette after cigarette. He insists he won’t go to bed without me. I decide to wait until he falls asleep so that I can make my escape. I’ll sit upright in bed while he makes spitting noises in his sleep.
Sometimes I’ll fall asleep, curled tight, as far away from him as that small bed will allow. I’ll sleep for three hours, sometimes four. Then I wake to run.
Oh and how I run! There’s a trail that expands 80 miles to St. Louis and I always think I can make the trip. But I’ll run six or eight or ten miles. When I’m out of breath I think, crap… now what?
But then I dress for work and by this time he’s already moving in the bed. He sits up straight and mumbles ‘sorry, sorry, I’m such an idiot. I’m really sorry.’ I’ll bit my lip and look to the floor. Don’t answer him, don’t answer... ‘I’m going to work’, and I always curse myself for saying that. He jumps up and buttons his jeans. ‘I’ll drive you’. He’ll run around the house, picking up my uniform, brushing his teeth, singing some song.
We drive in silence. I ask him for a cigarette and ash, ash, ash without really inhaling. When we stop he’ll breath deeply. ‘I love you. I love you so much.‘. I turn to face him to tell him that I’ll walk home. I wish I hadn’t because I see him blow me a kiss and know I’ll return.
I can also tell by the pattern of his feet. He almost shuffles and he’ll be singing rock. Sometimes he says nothing, and sometimes too much. He gets angry when I purse my lips. He’ll scream and I’ll scream and soon he’s saying ‘you don’t know who I am, you made me this way you bitch, you fucking bitch, you stupid fucking bitch!’ I cry, I kick, and I especially yell back. Get away from me! I’m leaving, I’m leaving right now! I’ll pull on sweat pants and run from room to room looking for my shoes.
Sometimes he’ll follow me, stamping his feet. ‘Go! Go! You’ll never go! You’ll never leave!’ And when I leave, he pulls his arms out- big massive arms, gorilla’s hands. I duck and sprint. Most times he’ll push me against the wall so hard that I’ll bruise. He’ll leave me there to run and block the doorway. Sometimes he laughs, a sad, low laugh, and how I scream! ‘I’ll call the police. I’ll call them on you. I’ll tell them to take you away!’ If my roommates hear, and they always hear, they’ll look at the doorway, me on the floor, and return to their room. The next day they’ll tell me how horrible he is, and why am I with him, and there has to be something better for you out there?
Mostly, I don’t know how to quiet him. How to sit him still so that I can take a drive- a long one smoking cigarette after cigarette. He insists he won’t go to bed without me. I decide to wait until he falls asleep so that I can make my escape. I’ll sit upright in bed while he makes spitting noises in his sleep.
Sometimes I’ll fall asleep, curled tight, as far away from him as that small bed will allow. I’ll sleep for three hours, sometimes four. Then I wake to run.
Oh and how I run! There’s a trail that expands 80 miles to St. Louis and I always think I can make the trip. But I’ll run six or eight or ten miles. When I’m out of breath I think, crap… now what?
But then I dress for work and by this time he’s already moving in the bed. He sits up straight and mumbles ‘sorry, sorry, I’m such an idiot. I’m really sorry.’ I’ll bit my lip and look to the floor. Don’t answer him, don’t answer... ‘I’m going to work’, and I always curse myself for saying that. He jumps up and buttons his jeans. ‘I’ll drive you’. He’ll run around the house, picking up my uniform, brushing his teeth, singing some song.
We drive in silence. I ask him for a cigarette and ash, ash, ash without really inhaling. When we stop he’ll breath deeply. ‘I love you. I love you so much.‘. I turn to face him to tell him that I’ll walk home. I wish I hadn’t because I see him blow me a kiss and know I’ll return.
The Night We Had No Heat
The February night I helped her move into the new apartment on the North side of Chicago we found there was no heat. The apartment was as cold as the street had been, without the insulated warmth of snow, but there was nowhere else to go. We unpacked boxes and drank wine until our eyes grew smaller and shiny. We read poetry aloud and drank more. The wine stayed cold no matter how long it was cradled in our hands and we continued talking, sitting on the hardwood, kissing between phrases, pretending I wasn’t flying home in a handful of hours.
I could see The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock as it swam through the crisp air from my parted lips, floated around the built-in bookshelves we were slowly filling with her memories, and gently sank down over her face like a warm spring mist. I wrapped myself in those words to stay warm. I’m sure I spilled my Riesling. Her smile sparkled as she laughed and we snapped photographs commemorating The Night We Had No Heat.
The little cat ran from room to room hopping in and out of emptied packing boxes demonstrating the dexterity of kittenhood, making her own heat and making us coo and laugh. Finally, when morning neared, drunk on white wine and stiff with cold, we slid into bed fully dressed and held each other. We squeezed in tight under the heaviness of the down comforter. The way our legs lay layered like a twisted bread loaf we clicked and stayed warm as the digital clock ticked away the hours of night.
In what felt like minutes the alarm ripped us from the safe womb of our drunken sleep. We had slept too well. We had slept too late. My flight across the country was leaving in an hour. I silently searched for my shoes in the freezing darkness, unable to imagine sleeping again without her. I did not miss my warm apartment. I would have chosen her over heat but the flight was booked and I was headed back to DC. My plane took off, and she stayed in Chicago. Her heat didn’t come back on for weeks.
I could see The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock as it swam through the crisp air from my parted lips, floated around the built-in bookshelves we were slowly filling with her memories, and gently sank down over her face like a warm spring mist. I wrapped myself in those words to stay warm. I’m sure I spilled my Riesling. Her smile sparkled as she laughed and we snapped photographs commemorating The Night We Had No Heat.
The little cat ran from room to room hopping in and out of emptied packing boxes demonstrating the dexterity of kittenhood, making her own heat and making us coo and laugh. Finally, when morning neared, drunk on white wine and stiff with cold, we slid into bed fully dressed and held each other. We squeezed in tight under the heaviness of the down comforter. The way our legs lay layered like a twisted bread loaf we clicked and stayed warm as the digital clock ticked away the hours of night.
In what felt like minutes the alarm ripped us from the safe womb of our drunken sleep. We had slept too well. We had slept too late. My flight across the country was leaving in an hour. I silently searched for my shoes in the freezing darkness, unable to imagine sleeping again without her. I did not miss my warm apartment. I would have chosen her over heat but the flight was booked and I was headed back to DC. My plane took off, and she stayed in Chicago. Her heat didn’t come back on for weeks.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Cistern
There’s a large rectangular cistern outside her bedroom window. It’s eight feet long, by four feet wide, and about five feet deep. She’s seen it before, she’s sure, and not at the new sixteen theatre omniplex, and not in daylight, certainly not at night. It was just as she remembered it, or thought she’d remembered it. Where was this memory coming from? It was hollow and dark, this large cistern. Somehow its size made the earth look plastic. When she reached for a handful the soil collapsed gently, in her palm. It was grainy and soft like velvet rice or the things she‘d mistakenly leave outside in the rain. She held this earth in her hand that molded and sealed like wax. This soft, firm substance had a climate all its own; it warmed, it pulsated, and it entwined itself in her fingers like living branches, or a latex glove, or another human hand.
She only saw her hand move behind her, and then felt a gentle pull as she watched the cistern move further away. Looking down on this small pile of dirt she saw her mother’s pale hand. It was dusted with that same earth that looked metallic in the sun. They walked backward in small, sturdy steps. When back on the porch she looked again to her mother’s hand, still in her own, clean, peach, nails intact, and so very hot. It seared at the touch, her mother’s hand, and she quickly removed her own- salted and peppered with that same earth. It smelled of her body, and sauerkraut, and rusted iron. It felt like wet grass and weighted pollen and a sunburn. When she went forward to return it to the hole the cistern was gone and the back door swung shut.
She only saw her hand move behind her, and then felt a gentle pull as she watched the cistern move further away. Looking down on this small pile of dirt she saw her mother’s pale hand. It was dusted with that same earth that looked metallic in the sun. They walked backward in small, sturdy steps. When back on the porch she looked again to her mother’s hand, still in her own, clean, peach, nails intact, and so very hot. It seared at the touch, her mother’s hand, and she quickly removed her own- salted and peppered with that same earth. It smelled of her body, and sauerkraut, and rusted iron. It felt like wet grass and weighted pollen and a sunburn. When she went forward to return it to the hole the cistern was gone and the back door swung shut.
Weathering Change
I never understood the urgency of listening to the morning weather. As I understood it, I wore shorts and t-shirts between May and September and boots and a coat between October and April. The intricacies of the weather escaped me like midday snowflakes on the windshield of our Dodge Caravan.
A wind chill.
A heat index.
Chicago’s 32 degrees. 16 degrees. Negative 8 degrees.
A fog advisory.
Ozone awareness.
A high pollen count.
Without a grasp of anything beyond hot and cold, I never understood my mother’s need to listen to the morning weather report at exactly 7:10 on her favorite oldies radio station every day. The nagging, whining and fighting of my brother and I was forcefully sssshhhhed at this time so the weatherman could have the stage for 30 seconds. It was a moment in her morning routine as important as brushing her teeth or hooking her bra. She didn’t work outside. Her car lived in the garage. Why did she care so much about the weather?
20 years and 700 miles removed from those memories, when my alarm quietly buzzes close to my face each morning, the cats have been chasing each other for hours and Lauren has already showered.
My lazy daily routine is quick and careless. I don’t dry my hair, apply makeup or eat breakfast. I brush my teeth, shower and watch the news at 7:56 each morning on WJLA. I never miss the weather.
Meteorologist Brian van de Graaff guides me like a coin-seeking palm reader grabbing my hand on the streets of New York City. Forecasts of windy, sunny, or partially cloudy like life-lines or love-lines help me predict my future and plan my day. I pack a long-sleeved shirt, an umbrella, or sunglasses. I wear boots or plan to eat my lunch outside. I prepare my mind for a day that will inevitably feel out of my control.
I wonder now if my mother, alone in her single motherhood, lusted after that control the way I do now. Knowing what she could expect when she walked out the door was one step up on a life that had succeeded in throwing her for loop. Understanding loss, paying the bills, and feeding the kids were all up in the air - but she would never let the universe catch her without an umbrella.
A wind chill.
A heat index.
Chicago’s 32 degrees. 16 degrees. Negative 8 degrees.
A fog advisory.
Ozone awareness.
A high pollen count.
Without a grasp of anything beyond hot and cold, I never understood my mother’s need to listen to the morning weather report at exactly 7:10 on her favorite oldies radio station every day. The nagging, whining and fighting of my brother and I was forcefully sssshhhhed at this time so the weatherman could have the stage for 30 seconds. It was a moment in her morning routine as important as brushing her teeth or hooking her bra. She didn’t work outside. Her car lived in the garage. Why did she care so much about the weather?
20 years and 700 miles removed from those memories, when my alarm quietly buzzes close to my face each morning, the cats have been chasing each other for hours and Lauren has already showered.
My lazy daily routine is quick and careless. I don’t dry my hair, apply makeup or eat breakfast. I brush my teeth, shower and watch the news at 7:56 each morning on WJLA. I never miss the weather.
Meteorologist Brian van de Graaff guides me like a coin-seeking palm reader grabbing my hand on the streets of New York City. Forecasts of windy, sunny, or partially cloudy like life-lines or love-lines help me predict my future and plan my day. I pack a long-sleeved shirt, an umbrella, or sunglasses. I wear boots or plan to eat my lunch outside. I prepare my mind for a day that will inevitably feel out of my control.
I wonder now if my mother, alone in her single motherhood, lusted after that control the way I do now. Knowing what she could expect when she walked out the door was one step up on a life that had succeeded in throwing her for loop. Understanding loss, paying the bills, and feeding the kids were all up in the air - but she would never let the universe catch her without an umbrella.
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