where no camera can go

my eyes are lenses
my brain the camera
i blink
taking endless pictures second by second
focusing on that rich chocolaty brown of my coffee
the smooth, crisp white lines of the rim of my mug
if only i could publish what i see from this perspective
let others see the view from here
and invite them to feel what i feel now as i stare at my feet
and watch leaves cast smudged shadows across the floor by my toes.

purple

he exchanged his soft cotton sweatpants for the purple spandex that he was unfortunate enough to be destined to wear. they were so difficult to pull up over his bulging calve muscles and girthy thighs, made huge by so much action, so many opportunities to "work out." he had gotten it down to an art, though, hardly noticing the way it mercilessly squeezed his skin tightly together, like being inside the digestive track of a large snake. he decided daily to look past the way it pulled his leg hair out as he struggled to pull them up. he ran his hands over the rubbery, eggplant smoothness of the lower half of his costume--costume, could you call it a costume? it was a representation of this double life he lived.
usually he was yanking on these glorified rubber bands in his haste to get to the next "mission," to solve the next "problem," but he was simply trying them on this time, taking time to measure their effectiveness and assess his need for improvements. he was startled by the hollow clicking of Marcie's stilettos on the shiny wooden floors of his house. he had these floors installed for just this purpose--for all his strength, his hearing was his kryptonite and he needed whatever help he could get. each definitive CLICK CLICK was closer than the last, and his brown broke out in a sweat as he stumbled out of his spandex, falling to the floor as they stuck around his ankles, grape colored feet cuffs, making him a desperate prisoner for an endless 30 seconds. there was a soft scrape at the base of his door as she came to a stop and moved her left foot into that impatient pose she often assumed.
SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPT. his curiosity made him pause on his side, one foot out and one foot in.
SPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPT. potent aerosol stinging his nostrils. the key hole spat a fiery mist into the room as the sound persisted. he watched it settle and cling to the floor in tiny droplets--a miniature crime scene of a murdered orange. he listened a while, unwilling to move until the SPPT'ing stopped and her legs-long with tiny calves that got unusually bigger as they climbed upwards-CLICKED away across the polished oak flooring of the hall, across the recently varnished living room and finally taking her through the front door onto the long, winding stone walkway. the door closed firmly behind her.
he waited to hear the purring of an engine and the grinding of gravel as it spun under retreating wheels, before kicking off the last of the purple tights and, in his tighty whities (that gave him underwear lines but he wasnt able to shed yet, even after 6 months. he often kept his cape pulled together in the front to hide them), gingerly opening his bedroom door to survey the mystery on the other side.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" it read, its unmistakable orange color bleeding slowly down the door, eventually drying in globs several inches down. each letter was neatly drawn, like computer print, a stark contrast to the way it was messily weeping.
he settled across the hall, sliding to his bottom with his back resting against the wall, below the large picture of a yacht at sea, facing the cryptic message squarely. he remembered last summer, remembered when the microwave had turned on at 2am and ran by itself for three hours before waking him up with the pungent smell--so pungent he could taste the charcoal in its scent--that called him to unplug it and toss it in the back yard. he found buddy licking out its insides later that morning when he was opening all the windows to air the house. that started his summer. a couple of other appliances followed the microwave's suicidal example as the weeks stretched on; the toaster was next, then the coffee maker, and finally the stove that was only a year old. the deterioration of his kitchen--the electrician said it had something to do with his sockets--led him to venture into the city he tried to avoid. by the end of july, he had eaten at almost every restaurant within 50 miles. he was not one to eat the same thing over and over again; which is why he preferred to cook at home, looking up recipes on his computer that wouldnt connect to the Internet any other way but dial up, and so filled his office with static dial tones.
he kept fruit in a bowl on a marble-topped island, but that summer, he was gone so often that he always returned to the staggering odor of rotted bananas and peeled his Florida oranges only to dig his fingers into mushy, spoiled fruit that he would throw on his composte pile and try to keep Buddy from eating.
it was august by the time the air conditioning went out and buddy learned to turn on the hose. he would wake up early in the morning, when the sun had already climbed high enough to set his burning gaze over the entire city, to the high pressured water spraying his window, a torrential downpour on his house alone, each drop heavy as lead and pounding, pounding him awake, as it uncontrollably snaked across the yard. buddy would howl with pleasure and lapped at the spray in the air before it hit the ground, and he would wake to turn the hose off and wouldnt be able to fall back asleep because of the humidity, sticking him like glue to anything he touched.
it was a relief, then, when he was called out of the country--a highly classified mission. of course, everything was "highly classified" since the government had discovered him and forced him out of his private life into the public's great, blinking, unforgivable eye. Berlin was much cooler and he had breathed the thinner air in great gulps. unfortunately, he had spent most of his time there lying face up, staring at the uneventful white stucco ceiling and trying to match footsteps to people. the surgeon was unmistakable, he clunked heavily down the squeaky tile, his geriatric white Keds taking the punishment of his overlarge belly without mercy. each step filled the air with its force and aftershock. he counted each time the surgeon came in to check on the patient, and got to 23 before his client was finally wheeled out for the operation. he was a glorified babysitter that time. this was becoming a usual occurrence.
but he met Marcie that summer. he was not a very assertive man, outside of his purple spandex outfit and sense of justice and urgency. she had made up for his shyness, pulling herself to him by grabbing the knot that tied his cape together. she reached for the mask that concealed the top half of his face--now there out of habit rather than for necessity--and pushed it to rest just above his forehead, giving him just-out-of-bed hair. he remembered the waxy taste of her lipstick; was it supposed to be some kind of berry? it was reminiscent of crayon, and left an oily film on his teeth when she bit his lip. he had taken, not returned, but she gave freely every time anyway. everytime he saw her, that taste-so artificial, so heavy, fell from his memory back onto his tongue and his smacked his lips to get rid of its reminder.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" was it a command to recall their first meeting, how this disastrous relationship began? as if he had forgotten. could it be a goodbye? or her way of forcing her hello into his life again and again and again, an endless greeting.
buddy, who had graduated from hose knobs to doorknobs, trotted across the kitchen tile on TAP TAPPING toenails and dropped yesterday's Wall Street Journal onto his lap (he hadnt quite figured out the importance of dates, and was doing good to assume the role of mailman these days). he pushed it-covered in thick slober-to the side and easily pushed himself to standing. he imagined himself rummaging through his shed for some turpentine, when an article title jumped out at him like a lightening strike, clarity against the hazy darkness of his mind. "THE LOST COURSES OF THE ADIRONDACKS." each bold letter seemed typed neatly into the space of his consciousness.
he ruffled buddy's shaggy head and returned to his bedroom to collect his supersuit, leaving the blaring orange lettering to dry, soaking its message into the wood permanently.

there are worst things to have to say to someone at the bar when, over the jukebox, booming out some song that some guy was dared by his friends to play, someone you are meeting for the first time asks loudly, "what do you do for a living?"
i mean, you could admit that you work in retail, selling produce or pencils to mass consumers, or that you move boxes or deliver furniture 40 hours a week to keep your lights on and your cell phone company satisfied. yes, there are less glamorous options than leaning over, beer bottle tipping slightly in hand, and saying into your new acquaintance's ear, "i am a paleoclimatologist."
but Bill never enjoyed telling people his line of work. it was frustrating. once he got them pronouncing it correctly, then there was the awkward moment when the person he was speaking with had to decide between pretending they are familiar with the term or honestly proclaiming, "what the hell is that?" regardless of what they chose, it always ended the same way-awkwardly. there is no conversation killer quite like admitting you are a scientist in an obscure field.
so Bill had taken to dumbing down his profession.
"i work with weather stuff."
"im a scientist."
"i do research."
"i read boring books."
and then, perhaps he could steer them onto another subject. he was, after all, well versed in these types of scenarios, due to excessive practice. bars were, after all, where he spent the few hours he had to himself between midnight and 3am, when he had returned home from the lab or the library or the classroom and when he had finished his chores at home, making dinner and putting Mother to bed.

there were, of course, the long moments and minutes and hours in between, when he listened to her talk about her uneventful day and had to recount his own to her eager ears. he used to listen with rapt attention, his body language and conversation engaging. in those moments, he was the model of his mother in the days when her hair was long and full and she brushed though it quickly and carelessly. he was proud of her hair, like a movie star's hair, her bangs falling over her left eye constantly. he watched her push it back every few minutes as she made him an after-school snack and listened intently to his stories about Mrs. Harth and his crayons and the big, heavy clouds he drew across his paper during recess. they were only slightly gray, and the rest he left white as the paper; he said because they were only thinking about raining at the time that he drew them. he had learned to listen from the way he saw her eyes and brow and hands and back and long neck, often hidden by her brown hair left down, listened when he spoke. she asked questions-she always knew the right question-and he loved to answer them. he had learned to ask questions from her too-about the weather, about hot and cold, about seasons and their city and the sky today, tomorrow and yesterday and then about many yesterdays ago.

but he was losing these skills even as she needed him to do them well. the truth was, it was painful to listen, to watch those same dark eyes when he had to see the wrinkled hands with large, purple veins, and bent back. he already knew the answer to the questions he would ask and so he held off until he could change the answer.

"you look so tired. must've been a long day."
why was she talking to him? he had seen her walk through the door, stepping nonchalantly through peanut shells and right up to the bar. he had noticed her long dark hair but failed to notice moments later, when she moved to a stool nearby.
"uh, not bad i guess. just thinking." she laughed.
"so thinking makes you tired, then."
"if i think too much."
"well then, i hope you dont make a career out of it." she shoved a handful of peanuts, that she had been cracking, into her mouth and washed them down with a Blue Moon. "is it?"
"is it what?"
"your career?" Bill turned his bottle sideways and stared at the label a moment, contemplating his response.
"i do some research on the weather."
"thats awfully vague." she asked for it.
"i'm actually a paleoclimatologist that works with Brown's Graduate School." she pondered over another handful of salty protein.
"paleoclimatologist." she moved it around her mouth like a first sip of wine, letting it touch each part of her tongue to investigate it. "paleo...old stuff. climate...weather. ologist...specialist." this was certainly a new response.
"yes, im an old weather specialist." im going to use that from now on. "and do you deal with language much? or a detective, maybe."
"both, actually."
"well, then, arent we both impressive?" he had finished his beer, and at the usual 3am mark, but he wasnt quite ready to go yet. to the bartender's surprise, he ordered another. "do you like being a language detective?"
"oh, im not a language detective. i just work with both." he wasnt in practice to deal with her coy answers, and the scientist in him just wanted real facts. the scientist in him made it impossible to respond and he turned back to his drink. "i was supposed to meet someone here, but i guess he isnt going to show."
"oh, sorry about that."
"yeah, well, im not really. it makes it easier actually. now i have some ammunition to stave him off at work tomorrow." she finished the last of her beer and slapped some money on the counter. "got to get going, work starts at 5am!"
"not much time left to sleep, huh?"
"oh, i dont need to. nice talking to you-weatherman."
"yeah," he tipped his bottle towards her, startled, and turned slightly on his stool, as if pulled towards the door by her movement, "you too..." and she was gone with a wink, pushing a strand of frizzy hair from her face.

Bill wasnt much of a people person. he simply endured night classes full of bored students for the extra money. he didnt mind other scientists, though, especially when they were as passionate about the same field. he was startled

fireworks and relationships...relational fireworks!

perhaps these days are a taste of what its like to be a stay-at-home-mom. well, at least the stay-at-home part. i got up with mikey but had to say goodbye and have since been on facebook looking at pictures and sending people messages. the dryer just stopped its soft purring and thumping and for some reason i cant stand the thought of going to match all of those socks and fold all of those towels and put all of those shirts on hangers. i want a smoothie but i shutter to think about having to unload the dishwasher and then re-load it with the mess in the sink JUST to have the faucet available. and yet, that's all i really have to do today, so why isnt it "no big deal"?

its difficult for me to think of my future now, mother or not. the only things that seem certain are the things that will cause major disruption and uncertainty in my life. i tend to let my imagination run wild, the possibilities start to choke out my breath, and my heart speeds up.

so ill think about something else.

on the fourth, we had something like 30 people unexpectedly camping out in our apartment-anywhere there was an empty space available to sit. we hadnt planned on getting rained out. it made me wish i had a huge living room with lots of comfortable couches and chairs so that everyone could sit together--but they seemed happy enough on the porch, in the living area, on the floor in the dining room and kitchen. our friends can be versatile!
we didnt get to see fireworks though, and that was sad. the fourth of the july is just any other holiday without fireworks dazzling us so high above.
going to see fireworks has always been one of my favorite things to do. its one of those family activities that just isnt the same with anyone else. we have our own family traditions that make things uniquely fun. the place was always carefully chosen so that we got the best fireworks, and we always went early so that we had the best seat! sometimes we were on the lawn in chairs, sometimes in the back of a truck or sitting on the roof of our van. sometimes-my favorites-we were laying on our backs on blankets and looking almost straight up into a shower of sparks over our heads. i love for them to be so close that you feel they will pour over you on their way down-like colorful rain. to pass the time and entertain each other, we would name the different fireworks. our favorite was always my sister evie's creative "rainbow blood." nothing could really ever top that one. i remember the year we were obsessed with videotaping everything (someone must have given us a camera--and it was one of those really old ones, a huge black machine that you almost had to hold with two hands; the kind with a big pocket on the side that pops out so that you can put the vhs right into it) and we took it to the park in P.A. to catch the fireworks on tape. re-watching it (probably later that night), you could see them just barely in the background, while me and my church friends did the YMCA as it blasted from a radio nearby.
i havent seen them with my family in a while. lately, since ive been married, mikey has taken me to the top of a parking deck downtown and we watch the fireworks from the baseball game that we didnt pay to go see. he leans against the concrete wall of the deck and i lean against his warmth. from that spot, you can see fireworks all over the city, some close and some so far away that you can only see a glimmer of red and blue light on the horizon--mini bombs exploding over crowds of tiny people who thought it was a private showing. nothing is private from our lookout, we see all of the entertainment, the entire city's patriotic celebration.
they feel so far away, but i think that's because im bigger now, and all things that seemed colossal to me as a kid have gotten smaller.

not knowing what to do for the day paralyzes me. i think im not choosing, but i am doing so merely by not making a choice--this is my choice. here at these keys, when there are dishes and laundry and books to read. i brought a bag FULL of files home from school, and here i am into july and have only touched it to move it out of my sight. i cant fathom looking at the stuff. those handouts and lesson plans would throw me off these heights of summertime and im not prepared for that fall. instead, ill probably go down to the pool and read so that i dont have to shower or think about being alone in this apartment.

i am seeing christie ray today. i saw her recently but this'll be the first time i actually hang out with her in...at least a year. and you cant count the year before that because, even though we were at the same party, being next to each other was so awkward we opted to sit at different tables and hang with different people.
i am envisioning all sorts of scenarios-as i am apt to do. it takes me back to my college freshmen days, but instead of being afraid to go to the cafeteria, its her house im frightened to enter. instead of being terrified by starting a conversation with a stranger, i am terrified to enter into this relationship again with someone worst than a stranger--an old friend, an old best friend, an old roommate...with history and background who voluntarily fell off the face of the planet. but who am i kidding? enter into relationship? there is no guarantee those doors will be opened for me or, if they are, that i will walk through them again. who knows what will transpire? the part that scares me the most is that there is one conversation we will have to have that i will have to start.

question free-write; 7.7.8

things id like to know:

1. why cant i ever drink all my milk before it goes bad?
2. what's so hard about cooking that it baffles me?
3. do i have a learning disability?
4. are there secrets in my left brain that ill never know unless my right brain ceases to function?
5. am i doing enough activities to exercise my brain?
6. why is being alone, sitting still and silent, so hard? will it ever get easier?
7. why do i forget all the important lessons that i learn?
8. what will happen when i rekindle that broken relationship?
9. am i deceived when i think that my marriage is healthy?
10. how can you ever really trust a person, absolutely; especially when you find that they have lied to you before?

well?

3. ive always wondered if i had a learning disability. ever since i could remember, some things have been hard for me to remember, or to even grasp in the first place. numbers especially, like in math or dates in history. historical or geometrical facts next. my mom eventually gave up teaching me to tell time when i was in elementary school. for some reason, i couldnt understand how to figure it all out, especially with one glance at the moving hands. it wasnt until much later, and many digital clocks with blinking red numbers, that i taught myself--or rather, continued my education in the time-field. this was a point of good-natured jest to me in college when i released the information (for who knows what reason--a moment of delicious shock on their faces? it made me different than others, didnt it?). however, to this day...years after college and several full-time, professional jobs that include time-telling as a necessity, and a few years of successful marriage and i still count by fives to discover the time of day, and double check myself often when deciding how long a casserole should be in, or the chicken on to boil. it wasn't just the numbers on the face of a clock that gave me...complications. its numbers anywhere...everywhere. ive past numerous simple math tests on job applications, but when that old gentleman is standing before me at the register and he's given me an amount of change so that he can get certain coins back and ive already punched in some amount on the screen so that the computer's calculator is no help, and the drawer full of money is standing open with a huge line behind his wrinkled form, bent over a cane, peering into my face, disgusted with my under-developed math skills, i am hopelessly lost in the matrix of numbers scrolling through my brain. or when i am adding a tip on my receipt so that my bill will be an even number...or when im measuring something so that lengths and widths and depths match up or so that i can buy the right amount of soil...or when im trying to follow a recipe written for two in order to feed 12...i am incapacitated...my mind shuts down like C-3P0 when the plugs been pulled.
i wish i could say that was it, but its history and geography, too. i can never remember where, exactly, things are on the map, nor how to get to the place ive been a million times before when ive missed my turn or been blocked off my construction. ive learned the capitals of the united states several times, but they fly out of my head after several moments of un-use. i cant recount the times my husband has relayed the times, dates, locations and significance of the SAME historical events, battles and people only to have to re-tell them when the subject is brought up again. i dont know many of the presidents that have impacted my country, cant remember the dates of the civil war and couldnt tell you in what era people were riding around in buggies or wearing those dresses with huge bone hoops underneath. it takes a long, patient process to explain much of anything to me, and there's no guarantee it will stick. in fact, not much of anything sticks to the walls of my slimy brain unless there's a gigantic picture or chart pinned in there with it.
English, words, literature, language...tend to be a different case (or so i hope, as ive made it my career). why grammatical structure fascinates me and i am able to retain facts, is beyond me. i love the systematic process of writing a beautiful analysis, or the careful dissection of a story to get to the palpitating heart of its mystery. with all of my other educational failures, i wonder if this indicates that these fields use little of the brain and require minimal thought or skill. if this is true, then why are random combinations of these things we call "words" (in the English tongue, of course) into larger structures ("sentences" and "paragraphs" to be precise) capable of calling forth, manipulating emotions, like lion tamers or perhaps fisherman? how are they able to touch such a complicated variety of people in such unique ways if the art itself is not complicated or unique?
this thought-a fragile light bulb whose filament is barely glowing, but burning all the same-is what keeps me from turning myself in, taking some test, and letting some person in a suit behind a desk give me a white slip of paper that has me sinking money into their brand spanking new yacht that ill never get to ride.

lessons

things that my first (temporary) college roommate taught me:

1. collaborating on the room set-up is an adequate introduction
2. hospitality has its limits but guilt is interminable
3. questions are better answered by actions than words
4. its less uncomfortable to say ooops! than to ask for permission
5. lying for each other is the roommate's initiation into friendship


things that i did NOT learn from my first (temporary) college roommate:

1. the cafeteria feels safer with a friend at your table
2. college will be an easier adjustment if you arrange knickknacks on shelves and have a set of drawers all your own
3. boy sleepovers are a joint roomie decision
4. be careful where you decide to put a tattoo
5. the gym opens at 6am

***

things that I learned from my husband:

1. "cooling off" means nursing a wound and then shoving those feelings deep down so that the explosion will be more impressive in the next argument
2. God has multiple personalities, so he's okay with unique worship
3. the differences between men and women should be celebrated--or at least, women should recognize men's differences as inevitable traits of the race and offer some tolerance
4. patience is a virtue...and still a virtue and, STILL a virtue...
5. don't ever ask "what are you thinking about?"

things that my husband did NOT teach me (and never will):

1. marriage stereotypes are true: husbands must eventually grow dull, wordless and irritated and wives must eventually grow paranoid, garrulous and grating.
2. a lack of thoughtful, loving acts is evidence that your husband doesn't care anymore
3. its better not to know and only safe to keep some things secret
4. men and women must accept that they are from different origins and can never cross over to understand each other
5. not speaking means not listening

between white blinds

she can't finish a cup of coffee these days. no matter how big the mug is, or how full it is of coffee, she can't digest past the half-way mark. of course, she's never tried filling it only half-full at the get-go, but one would think that only logical.
maybe she likes leaving it cold and unfinished. her silent rebellion, a retaliation to the hold the unpredictable beverage has over her. she sips at it, and as its heat diminishes, only picks it up to feel ceramic beneath her fingers, teasing the contents but not drinking again.
she is sitting on her porch this morning, and the heat of the day has already reached its peak. still, steam rises out of the off-white, blue and black striped mug that is on an old, wooden chair, covered in cobwebs and dust, that she is using as a table. it is too hot for coffee, but she picks it up and nurses it like a wounded kitten. she is observing everything, but taking nothing in. instead of that tree, she sees a black and white photo; instead of that couple, walking to their cars, she sees a small boy dancing in suspenders and red socks. her world is infused with memories that choke out the present.
or perhaps she is thinking of sending her daughter a happy birthday card after 13 years of silence. who knows? after all, im not a mind reader. just a neighbor.

after a long day when you have worked and i, not at all.

you're sleeping early tonight.
curled up.
your breath is rhythmic and heavy and sweet
and i lay close to feel it break over me, a small wave casting out and pulling slowly back.
the space around us feels wide and empty without your conscious presence. i am suddenly quite alone.
i wonder, am i with you, a part of the dream that is between us now?
i touch your skin and hold on to small hope that you will join me again.
but you're sleeping fast,
so early this evening.
there are no stars, but the wind is strong and knocks at our bedroom window. i fake a yawn that serves to remind me only of how awake i am.
soundlessly, i watch and fully, i love
your gently moving form. rising and falling.
the way your face is soft.
i trace patterns on your cheeks, around your eyes,
smooth your eyebrows and dare to touch my lips to your brow.
i listen, straining to hear each breath, as i burrow close into the curve of your back and wonder
full of wonder
how have you captured me so completely?

a beautiful song

"something always brings me back to you
it never takes too long.
no matter what i say or do...
i still feel you here,
till the moment im gone.
you hold me without touch,
keep me without chains.
i never wanted anything so much;
than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.
set me free,
leave me be.
i dont wanna fall another moment into your gravity.
here i am, and i stand
so tall...just the way im supposed to be.
but you're on to me,
all over me.
you loved me 'cause im fragile,
when i thought that i was strong.
but you touch me for a little while,
and all my fragile strength is gone.
set me free,
leave me be.
i dont wanna fall another moment into your gravity.
here i am, and i stand so
tall.
just the way im supposed to be.
but you're on to me,
and all over me.

i live here on my knees
as i
try to make you see that your
everything i think i need
here on the ground.
you're neither friend nor foe
but i cant seem to let you go
one thing i know
is that you're keeping me down.
keeping me down.
on to me,
you're on to me and all over.

something always brings me back to you,
it never takes too long."

sara bareilles, "gravity"