What to do when a bird gets stuck in your house

silence is
29 August 2008, 6:41 pm
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I have been a quiet bird, with four drafts and not a single post.  This is

my best friend’s mom dies

I have had a self-anniversary, R says I am the age all women want to be, now

work is causing me to be a bird at home

head cold

Not necessarily in that order, but the house is full now, and we’re all clanging around, displaying our griefs and pluming our feathers.  I have wanted, so much, to be quiet this week, and R magically knew that and got lost in the city tonight.  I do not love him as I should; I wish a heart more capable, less judgemental.

Someone is mowing the lawn as I read Stephanie Meyer and I keep trying to assauge Lola’s grief in my mind; her birthday card rests next to me as I type and I want to lay a cool hand to her forehead, to wish her sleep and peace and a panacea to all these tears.  I cannot, I can only throw rage at the poor lawn maintenance man, continue on the wine despite the sore throat and fever, to type into an unknowing ether and hope that the one person searching me out can be better than I am.

My love is not enough now; I hope my silence is.


25 August 2008, 2:00 pm
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My mom constantly one-ups people; tell her you had a cooking mishap and she’ll tell you how many hours she spent scraping charred brownies off the bottom of the pan (“honestly, your grandmother just wouldn’t get off the PHONE and I couldn’t reach in there to pull them out”); tell her a cute cat story and she’ll tell you about that one time Elvis shat out a 5 dollar bill (“I hope it’s more than that next time”); tell her how you’ve had a doozy of a morning, and she’ll describe this little number, straight from the government office where some “interesting characters offered to sell me a cup of coffee.”

Apparently, through a myriad of circumstances detailed elsewhere*, she has two Korean students staying with her for a couple of weeks. Apparently, she’s not so great at pronouncing Korean names, so they offered her Western-name equivalents: Betty and Steve. My mother returns from an outing to discover torrents of water rushing down the walls of the house and two identical expressions of terror.  Newly arrived, bellies full of the fettichini alfredo and ben & jerry’s ice cream that Mom loves so much, these poor kids and their poor intestinal tracts didn’t stand a chance.

But here’s the kicker in this story, the tough bit I’m still chewing on.  The moral she got out of this story, my mother, was how helpless she really was in this situation.  She described in great detail (as I am walking to work, engines blaring on either side, the sun coming up over the bridge, my knee a little sore from the long run I took) how she stood, frozen, watching water gush down the wall and could only think of who around her could manage this better.  My mother, who raised a gaggle of children, who was hit by a car, who runs 24 hours (in a ROW) for fun – felt weak in the face of a broken toilet.

Really, I ask?  Helpless?

In my mind, I wonder how Betty and Steve will tell the story, what the word for doozy is in Korean.

*flagrant lie.

high class
21 August 2008, 4:49 pm
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I love, love – unabashed, non-ironic, two feet first love – white zin and microwave popcorn.

That is high class with a capital HIGH.

rattle your keys
21 August 2008, 1:08 pm
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Sometimes I am such an asshole.

I get home and I am a mean, catty bird. I wish you weren’t here, that I could move quietly through the house, settle into its lack of response to my presence. I am tired of the world responding to my presence. I want to pull three walls close and echo my breath off them.

I know this will happen. I walk home, 45 minutes of steps, and I unravel the future before I get there. I see it from 100 feet in the air, erase the roof and look down on this mess of a being. I know it and I do it anyway.

I’m not sure why we do this; why we have to fold our angsts into new shapes and hurl them at people we love. I think I think of you as so much of myself, and so when I am tired of being myself, I am tired of being with you. It’s shitty; it’s hard not to do. I’m sorry, my love.

12 August 2008, 6:42 pm
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I keep on waiting for inspiration to strike, but quite frankly, I’m not sure what level of disclosure I’m comfortable with yet.  But since I’ve got a big glass of wine chasing down a shitty day, and since R has yet to come home and the Olympics are boring, I pulled up a chair to my own dis-ease and thought I’d throw some words out to the non-existent ether.

I used to do this thing: 100words.net.  Through rain, cold, disease, continents, heartache, beauty, sweat, tears, and awestruck thunder, I wrote down 100 words every single effing day for 4 years.  Not all of them were posted (I was in Africa in pre-Internet days) not all of them exist anymore, but I googled my old webfriend Jeff Koyen the other day and there it was.  A grainy image of a grainy former self, full of wonder at San Francisco and wondering what would happen next.  This was before airplanes took down buildings, before I broke my first heart, before I knew what Cipro tasted like if you accidentally got it wet.  I touched the screen, wanted to feel what I felt like.  All I ended up with was a slight static electricity shock and a lump in my throat.  I am not sentimental and firmly believe that we should roll through life without the constant judgment  nostalgia implies.  But damn.  I love that fragile version of a shadow self.  I want to hold her close, throw her ideas into the sky and lie to her about what comes next.