She could have called...

Today, my mom emailed me to let me know that my neighbor had died. Apparently, he had not collected his mail since the 3rd and when another neighbor with whom he would occasionally discuss gardening stopped by to check on him, she received no response even though his car was in the drive.

He lived alone. His son has been in and out of institutions my entire life. First up in New Jersey. Later Virginia. He's a a paranoid schizophrenic and when he was much younger and his mother was still alive, she wouldn't make him take his medication. Lately, on his infrequent visits, his father would refuse to let him in the house. Once he came into ours unannounced and in his underwear, claiming that he'd struck his father and the old man had fallen down.  He was alright, but the police came regardless and Danny (the son) was  gone again soon after.

He's lived alone in the house for years now, his wife is long dead. I would watch him from my room, pushing an ancient lawnmower or raking for hours at a time. Meticulously cutting away branches from the shrubs in his front yard. Regardless, they always grew wild. They were never neat. The house always looked like you wouldn't want to stop there on Halloween.

Mom and I would always say that we needed to be friendlier to him. We were afraid to get too familiar. Danny always comes back and we didn't want to let him in. He was our Boo Radley, only the stories about him were mostly true. He would howl at the moon and lift manhole covers. He'd drape Confederate flags from the rear of the car he couldn't legally drive and yell from his stoop that the South would rise again. He told my mother he'd seen the Devil because he knew she was similarly religious and would understand why he then tried to remove his own eye. The eye is still there, he just can't see out of it. He used to send letters claiming he was innocent. I never knew innocent of what. Mom wouldn't say. Later I found out it was something about two missing girls but there not being enough evidence. That was the first time he went away.

My childhood was punctuated by missives not to walk certain places alone. Never answer the door. If the phone rings, it's a wrong number. If we did see him, we had to go home for lunch, or dinner. Whatever made more sense. I hated seeing his father alone the way he was. I just couldn't bring myself to go against what Mom had always said. That these were people we didn't associate with, We didn't let them in.

The Reverse Murtaugh

I was talking the other day to a friend who will turn 26 in a few months time. She is terrified that she'll reach 30 without a wedding ring or a toddler (preferably in that order.) She doesn't want to be 40 before she has a kid. I tried to tell her that that is exactly how old my mother was when she had me and I don't recall her ever being to tired to keep up with me. Actually, the night Michael Jackson died we danced around the kitchen to the stream of Jackson 5 videos playing on every channel.

She dances better than most of my friends and she's 65. She can still twist. She can still jerk. I'm pretty sure she could pull off a mean watusi with minimal provocation. She shovels the snow and never asks anyone to open a jar for her. The only suit she owns is a perfectly impractical shade of red. She once drove her car on the sidewalk surrounding the Washington monument because she wanted to see if it was wide enough for a VW Bug. The night she totaled her car and had to be taken to the hospital, she smiled because her panties matched her bra. They were both plaid. The other night, she casually dropped into conversation the nude pictures of herself she used to have hanging in her apartment. She did all this before she had kids. She lived a whole life before she met my father, settled down, and had kids.

Even still, there are things she never did and I know she wants better for me. She never really traveled. She pretty much always had to work. My friend might owe her mother grandbabies, I owe mine pictures of me on top of Irish cliffs and in front of Parisian cafes with dark Italian men who call me "Bella" because "Meredith" is too hard for their languid tongues. I might keep the languid tongues to myself though. I owe her poems and journals and postcards. I owe her roadtrips and staying out too late to catch the Metro home because I didn't want to leave before the next song. I owe her cup after cup of coffee and the occasional cigarette even though we know much better. I owe her scotch and just a splash of water.

So that's where my list comes in. I don't know if I'll ever get married or have kids. I do know there there are a few things I need to do before I turn 30. Before I get too old for this shit. I'm not going to compile the list here. It's a work in progress. But one of the things on the list is (and has been for a while now) go to a music festival that lasts more than one day. Today, I bought my ticket for Bonnaroo. I'm going to get dirty. I might even get crusty. I'll sleep in a van and "shower" with a giant bottle of water and some baby wipes. I'll wear my hair in braids and pretend that my striped bikini is a perfectly acceptable bra/shirt. I'm going to do this for four days and it's going to be magical because these guys will be there (and so will thousands of my new best friends):

It really is shaped like Virginia.

From opposites sides, we looked at the map of Virginia
that table made in my parent's kitchen and
from under the newspapers and our cofffe cups
you pointed the eastern edge where you'd rather be
and asked me to do the same, but
where I want is out the backdoor and passed
the neighbor's yard, over other people's fences
to a table shaped like something else entirely.

2010: You can keep tomorrow. After tonight we're not gonna need it...

1. Do not write off bands with silly names because this is how I almost missed on out Death Cab for Cutie. (See also Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness, etc.)

2. Stay up long enough to see the Sun come up.

3. Kiss strangers.

4. Make things.

5. Do things.

6. Wear all my shoes at least once.

7.  Finally wear the naked shirt.

8. Walk to Metro more often than I drive there.

9. Make food for people who will eat it.

10. Learn something new. One thing. And be able to do it well enough that I'm willing to do it in public.

11. Dance, even when the situation does not call for dancing.

12. Take full advantage of the puddles left by rainstorms.

 13. Go see bands. Start with this one:

I need to find a cheaper happy place.

Some girls eat their feelings. I, apparently, buy mine. Sadly, most of this has been purchased since returning to NoVA after college. The last year was kind of shitty and Urban Outfitters is my happy place. I haven't started packing my clothes to move yet. I was going to do that tonight but needed to clean first and tried to organize the shelves somewhat in the hopes that it would make the process easier...

Where in the hell did I get all this? Why do I own this many striped shirts and cardigans? You know how women like to say "you can never have too many cardigans"? I have 6. that's too many. 9 little black dresses. Also too many. I didn't count the striped shirts but it's a sizable stack. How many shows could have gone to were it not for that stack? Drinks with friends? Dinner? A movie or two? The dresses are worth a roadtrip or two, no doubt.

The thing is, I will pack up what is pictured and take it to my new place and try, fruitlessly, to find room for it there. Getting rid of it is only an excuse to buy more.

So here's the new rule: if I say I need more/new clothes. I'm lying.

Does this count as a resolution?

The end of one year and the beginning of the next, if nothing else, serves as an excellent means of pausing to examine yourself, your friends, what did you or did not spend the year doing, the world at large, whatever you want really. So I've been thinking about this year a lot and have come to the conclusion that it kind of sucked. On levels. What's odder still, is that that doesn't necessarily bother me the way I know it should.

I rang in the new year by getting yelled at repeatedly, and then hit, by my ex-boyfriend at at New Year's Eve party. Suffice to say,  I kissed no one when the ball dropped. I didn't have much time to dwell on that spectacular shitstorm because class started. I realized pretty quickly that I didn't want to be in class, but had spent so much time talking about how that was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life that there was no room (I thought) to change my mind...even at 23. So I stayed in that class, got my A, signed up for a summer course, got my A, and started my third semester. I shouldn't have kept it up as long as I did when every assignment was an exercise in making myself care in the hopes that eventually I would. I'd started to hate reading and writing (two things I'd previously considered hobbies.) I've only just started enjoying either again and it's still a struggle to write on even a semi-regular basis. It still feels like work instead of a compulsion.

Quitting school was terrifying. I didn't know what to be without my nose in a book. I'm still not sure who I am. I have a few things down, the basics: sexual preference, political affiliation, religious bent (that last one gets fuzzy sometimes.) Beyond that, I have no idea who Meredith is or what she wants. I went to get drinks with two childhood friends last night, one is studying oceanography and marine biology (ecology?), the other is in law school. While they're still hammering out the finer points of what they want, they have a big picture. We're the same age. I have no picture. I don't even have a background color (purple? some days I'd rather wear green.) I miss the certainty of a big picture (even if it's a Monet.) I liked my plan, rather I liked having one. And my lists. I haven't made any lists in a long while. I go to the grocery store and forget to buy the thing I came in to get and instead leave with hummus and a pound of olives. I needed soap. I can't wash my face with olives.  Or hummus.

And then there are the dudes...

If I've learned nothing else this year, it's that I have spectacularly terrible taste in men. My entire dating history (up to an including my last misinformed foray into dudetopia) has been a failure. I've spent a good part of the last 5 or so months wondering what I could do or say to be more of whatever someone wanted. I kept my phone at my side, I rearranged plans, I watched what I wore and said because I was afraid that any of it might be the thing that killed it. In the end, none of that mattered because there was never anything to kill (I kind of knew this all along but ignored it as best I could.) I shouldn't really be upset that it's over because, as he'd be quick to point out, it was an unofficial few months. A 'lost' few months if you will. You can't be disappointed in end of something that never happened in the first place, right?

But I am. Despite my best efforts, it sucks. I'm bad with guys and this is yet another example of it. So I'm done. 2010 will be dudeless. I'm not switching teams. I'd like to think of it as "pulling a Morrissey." The absence of dudes will not tell me how much they want to like me but don't. They will not flirt with my friends. They will not tell me how terrible I am at not being a girlfriend or that I am too ambitious to care about anyone else. They certainly can't hit me or make be feel bad about my ever-expanding collection of dresses or the funny, obscure words I use. They won't try to paint me into a corner or continually tell me how great and funny and generally amazing their last girlfriend was. They can't stare at my tits when I'm talking or break plans. They can't do anything at all because they don't exist. And I can just be myself (whatever that turns out to be) without them.

No Recess.

I've been trying for months to come up with a concise explanation for why it is that I left graduate school after being so completely sure that scholar was the only job for which I am (was?) thoroughly qualified.  I've been able to explain it to myself well enough--the compounding feeling of wanting to be anywhere else whenever I was either in class or doing working preparation for it, the nagging feeling that I was in over my head (not because I wasn't getting the grades, but because I wasn't doing enough to merit getting them.) I felt bad about the As and the compliments scribbled at the bottom of my papers. I'd been phoning it in and I wanted someone to call me out on it, tell me I didn't want it bad enough.

I think (I hope) I figured out a way to explain it. I don't want to be an expert. In literature, in critical theory, in linguistics. I don't want to be an expert at anything because it means I didn't get the chance to try something else. It means I was too single-minded in my pursuit(s). I want to be a dabbler. I want to understand theory enough to explain to my brother that his frustration that his wife doesn't understand him is misplaced. His beef is with the English language, not his wife. Every conversation is an exercise in failure. There's no finite meaning in language. That's not even theory, it's polysemy.  Some words just want to do it all.

I think I forgot how much I loved learning because I was so focused on doing well in school. When I was younger I read about politics voraciously. I knew what was being debated in Congress and how it would affect me. When the PATRIOT Act was hastily cobbled together and pushed through both houses, I read it. I read bits and pieces of the RICO laws that pertained to it. I read what lawyers and Constitutional scholars thought of it it. What made it harmless and what made it terrifying. When I was much younger still, I had a small microscope. I would pull apart leaves and pluck fine little hairs from my head and examine them, making note of what I saw in a composition notebook. I was a terrible student but I was an avid learner. I'd like to back to being a learner now.

This year, I know better.

I'm not much for resolutions. I make them every year but lack follow through. Previously, this has not been much of a problem since I didn't keep a record of said promises to myself. Unfortunately, last year I wrote them down here:

1. Institute actual workout regime.
I go to the gym, run a little, stretch, dick around on machines and then leave. Yes I have lost some weight and toned up some but I've no earthly idea what I'm doing. This also may include taking a couple dance classes.

Have I done this? I do go to the gym. I spend less time on the machines and more time on the floor or in the weight area. I read articles and books on fitness and nutrition. I did start (and have continued) to take a hip-hop class once a week. Granted, I have also (because I keep a record of this as well) gained back almost half the weight I lost after college. Some of that though(maybe 5 pounds?) was break-up weight from Walt. I can't eat when I'm upset and I was upset a lot back then. I'm calling this a win.

2. Write more. I'm legitimately worried that I've become the woman in Raymond Chandler's "Cathedral" who only sits down to write a poem every two or three years when shit gets inexplicably real. I have both a copy of the 2009 Poet's Market and a Magnetic Poetry calender. Also two Moleskines and a pen at the ready. And shit has recently become increasingly tangible. I have no substantive excuse.

I am the woman from "Cathedral". Despite my Moleskines.

3. Become the kind of woman who can pull off red lipstick and Chanel No.5 without seeming like a possibly trashy septuagenarian.

I gave up the Chanel. It never really felt like me. Now I wear $10 lavender body spray and it smells like me. It also gets more compliments than the Chanel ever did. I can pull off red lipstick though.  I get a half point for this.

4. Be irrepressibly scholarly. I'd like to be able to discuss the post-structuralists on a substantive level (not just ending a pithy comments about what deconstruction isn't.)

I quit school. But last week I did fistbump my drunk co-worker over our shared love of Michel Foucault. I can quit school but I'll always have power structures. 

5. Only buy clothing that makes me want to dance. This applies to gym clothes, fun clothes, going out clothes, ladies nights regalia, work attire, shoes, etc., etc., etc... This will cut down on the money I actually spend on clothing and hopefully also eliminate last minute wardrobe disasters.

I do this. It has not eliminated last minute wardrobe crises or reduced the amount of money I spend on anything. Turns out, a lot of things make me want to dance.

6. Travel abroad at least once. I have a passport that is stampless and pathetic. It could do with some sprucing up.

Still stampless. Maybe next year? Even just Canada? 

7. Do well at Mason.

See 4.

8. Save money for a spiffy new computer.

Win!

9. Develop charming idiosyncrasies that amuse people at parties.

Fail? How is this even something one can accomplish?

10. Generally carry myself like a brave, little toaster. 

Working on it. This one's harder than I thought it would be. 

11. Find the perfect little black dress. I do not own a little (or big for that matter) black dress. This is a travesty and must be remedied.

I own 4 black dresses. None of them are perfect.

12. Get organized. My bookshelf is in disarray and my closet is full of clothing that goes unworn. It's giving me hives.

I'm about to move out and into a place with a big closet and more wiggle room. I'll require bookshelves but this is an accomplishable feat. 

13. Be admired from afar (this does not preclude the possibility of affairs with solvent but lonely gentleman who love me for my mind and lavish me with fancy shoes and Amethyst rings). I have too much stuff on this list (and far too much ambition) to worry about menfolk.

You know what? Being admired from afar sucks. I'm pretty good at being alone. I can grab things on the top shelf and open most jars. I don't miss having a boyfriend in a way that just anyone will do. If that were the case, I'd still be with Walt. Or Jimmy before him. I miss knowing that someone's got my back whether that means telling me that I've got everything under control when I don't feel like I do or just giving it a good rubdown after I dig my car out from 2 feet of snow. I don't want to be admired or adored  or idolized. I just want a dude who gets me. Until, I will handle that salsa myself, thank you.


I'm not making any resolutions this year. I'm in decent shape and have the motivation to stay that way. Writing will be an outlet or it won't. Dudes will come into my life and leave it just the same as it was before. Plus, I got that lipstick thing down. 

My day (12-21) in 6 pictures...

Yesterday, thanks to snOMG! '09!, I had the day off and elected to document it... (pardon my complete inability to format this properly, the accompanying text is all at the bottom.)

1. That fortune was in the sink when I came down to rinse out my coffee cup. It reads "you will be traveling and come into a fortune." That it was wet, stuck to the sink might say something. Also, it could be less vague. Will finding the fortune require me to travel first? Will I do each independent of the other? It could be more clear.

Incidentally, in order to procure that fortune, I ventured out for Starbucks and Chinese food Sunday afternoon and in the process, I drove over something (ice, small person?) that bent on of the struts on my front end. You read that right, it's bent. 

2. I routinely stand in front of my overfull closet with my feet in that exact position, trying to determine what I'll wear that day. Yesterday, it was a tee shirt, jeans, and a grandpa sweater. I'm still wearing those socks. I'm also working from home today.

3. After taking my car into the shop (see above) I went to Whole Foods for lunch and groceries. First things first: one slice of mushroom and shallot pizza, one slice of killer philly cheesesteak. Cheesesteak pizza should not exist. Not because it's a bad idea or does not taste good (it does), but because you shouldn't combine too many good things into one. It throws off the balance of the universe and I wind up having a shit week to make up for this pizza of unnatural deliciousness.

4. I'm moving soon and won't be able to explore the produce lined aisles and olive bar.  I'll pine for their vegan pizza, greasy samosas, and brown rice sushi. Trader Joe's is fun and much cheaper (and a purveyor of the ever inexpensive [$3.29] Charles Shaw Cab Sav), Wegman's also has an olive bar and a completely respectable produce section but I'll miss the tidy rows of bok choy and eggplant, all lined up and stacked (not piled) on top of each other. This appeals to me the same way those design book pictures of living rooms with color coordinated book shelves. There's an organic Escheresque quality to the way green peppers fit on top of each other. 

5. When I finally got home from getting groceries (mostly getting to and from groceries) took entirely too long and when I got home all I wanted to do was paint my nails, read Nylon, and Dark Was The Night, the hippest hipster compilation I've ever come across (including the nigh-monthly Nylon mix, The monthly Paste Sampler, various and sundry UO CDs, and the soundtrack to Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist.) Lately, I've been trying to expand my musical horizons (nice to meet you, Dudes-who-scream-a-lot-over-intricately-brutal-guitar-work) and while I like what I've come across (mostly), this week I reverted to my comfort zone: Dudes with beards* and feelings. listen to

Except that I couldn't. Kora came over and I had to paint her nails and watch The Little Mermaid again. It bothers me that she loves that movie so much. I mean, I loved it too but more and more these Disney movies bother me. She literally gives up her voice and then her family for a man and there's Kora, staring at the screen. 

(*Beck does not have a beard but he makes up for it in the "feelings" category on Sea Changes.)

6. This is me about 20 minutes before the end of the Little Mermaid.

At least I got a chunk of my Christmas shopping done...

Tonight I inadvertently helped a guy in line at Urban Outfitters behave like a complete asshat to some unsuspecting girl via text message. He and his friend were debating the merits of calling her "buddy" vs. calling her "pal". Which one would piss her off more, the one asked of the other. Before I could stop myself, I said, "Pal. Pal is much dickier." The guy (he wasn't a man, they take their hats off indoors) looked back at me, smiled, and said, "you're right. See, we do put thought into these," gesturing to the small phone in his hand. To wit, I smirked and replied, "it's the thought that disturbs me."

Given how my week has gone, it only makes sense that this is how I pay it forward. The girl on the other end of that phone, for reasons passing understanding, wants that guy. It's possible that she's crazy or can't take a hint. I've seen a fair amount of both from the fairer sex. It's also possible that she's just a nice girl who has the misfortune of being attracted to an unforgivable douche. I've been on her end a couple times. I don't even want to think about how many time I've coached my guy friends in the fine art of being a complete dick to someone who probably could do better anyway because there was enough distance between me and her that I could find humor in the situation and, Jesus Christ, at least it wasn't me on the receiving end.

Then again, was my alternative (apart from just keeping my mouth shut--a skill I doubt I'll ever acquire) to tell off Fratty McBaseballcap and his rotund line buddy? No. The most I might have mustered would have been an audible scoff and exaggerated eye roll. And it is entirely possible that this girl is one of the poor unfortunates who never get it until it's just too late. I've been there too. If he doesn't like her, she should know it. Maybe not like that, he runs the risk of her finding the platonic familiarity endearing. But that's a risk I'm willing to let him take.

I genuinely want to apologize to that girl for my part in this. I did immediately regret saying anything at all. I don't know how to absolve myself of this sin against the sisterhood. Then again, I might have inadvertently done her a favor...

Mixtape: Justin (You've got to promise not to stop when I say when...)

I've been reading this book called Cassettes From My Ex. It's pretty self-explanatory. After finding a collection of old mixtapes, Jason Bitner enlisted his friends to discuss their own forays into High Fidelity-esque compilation making. I made a lot of mixes in high school. Granted, I didn't use tape because we'd entered the digital age (because of that, I still have a copy of some of the better ones.) But care was still taken to get across just the right message to the recipient.

Mixes for boyfriends were easy. Mixes for friends who were guys, who maybe I didn't want to date, were much much harder. Like the mix I made for Justin, my dear, gorgeous, Eagle Scout and acting partner who I loved (but would kiss and feel nothing.) It's possible that the mix I made was a bit misleading:

1. Everlong- Foo Fighters. If anything, we bonded over mutual love of theater and the Foo. It was really all we've ever had in common. Somehow this has sustained our friendship well after college.

2. Bohemian Like You- The Dandy Warhols. Perhaps the refrain "I like you, I like you, I like you" was a tad misleading. Also, no one would ever mistake Justin for bohemian. Ever.

3. Know You're Right- Nirvana. I think this had just come out and I was delirious to hear anything from Kurt. Maybe I was trying to negate the previous song?

4. The City- The Dismemberment Plan. This has probably always been my favorite D-Plan song. Granted, it's not the sort of thing you give to someone you're not interested in. I'm starting to think I really led this kid on...

5. Sing Along- Dave Matthews. There's no excuse for this. I should have known better.

6. Coffee and TV-Blur. "And agree to marry me/So we can start over again." For fuck's sake. Really?

7. Simple Man- Lynyrd Skynyrd. This also makes no sense. This was never a song I associated with Justin. Actually, this song's always belonged to my friend David, whose mom died when we were in high school. This was always his song. It's never belonged to anyone else.

8. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want- The Smiths. How do I go from Skynyrd to The Smiths? How do I do that and sleep at night?

9. Satisfied Mind- Jeff Buckley. I listened to a lot of Jeff Buckley in high school. We all did. Grace was on almost constant rotation. My friends and I had a thing for dead musicians.

10. Stolen Car- Beth Orton. I've always had a soft spot for Lilith Fair alums.

11. Adam Lives in Theory- Lauryn Hill. I completely forgot about this song. I remember when a story was going around about how Hill didn't want white people to listen to her albums. When I saw her the summer after 10th grade, she didn't seem to mind the white people in the audience who knew every word. I listened to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill that whole summer. This song isn't on that album but it's just as good.

12. Walk on the Ocean- John Mayer (Toad the Wet Sprocket cover). He was (is/was?) a guilty pleasure of mine. My appreciation's waned since high school though.

13. Swallowed- Bush. Ahh, mid 90's pretty boy rock. In this and other songs on the mix is a need to get as far away from where I am as possible. We were about to leave for college. Maybe that's telling.

14. You Were Right- Built to Spill. Let's just think about the fact that both Dave Mathews and Built to Spill are on this mix. Just sit on that.

15. One Man Guy- Rufus Wainwright. Subtext: I'd rather be alone than with you. Let's us just be friends.

16. 2:45- Eliot Smith. I've never been sure if this song is about a person or an addiction (maybe both?)

17. Hide Your Love Away- Eddie Vedder. I've never been a huge fan of the Beatles. Like Led Zeppelin, I appreciate the genius but it doesn't move me. I suppose that's why I always preferred Vedder's version of this song.

18. Everlong- Foo Fighters (Acoustic this time.) Maybe I was trying to bring it full circle. Maybe I just didn't know how else to finish this song.

I really should have paid more attention to song lyrics.

Just make the most of what you’re paid, dear

Since I found it, I've had the letter I wrote myself when I was 15 or so tacked to the corkboard next to my desk. I barely remember the girl with terrible handwriting and who couldn't spell completion (how did I think there was an "s" and no "t"? I remember the Che Guevera tee shirt. I remember the jelly bracelets creeping up both arms and the small x's she reapply with eyeliner after washing her hands in the restroom outside the theatre. I remember a worn out copy of Guerrilla Warfare and how she'd quote Noam Chomsky and Howard Zinn and try to use words like "hegemony" before she really understood what she was talking about. The crossed out Gap label she safety pinned to a mechanic's jacket. Jeans she patched and re-patched and barely ever washed because she was afraid the thread might come undone so she'd just wear tights underneath them as if there was any way to feign modesty with fishnets. She'd dye her hair burgundy.

Ok, maybe I remember her distinctly. It wasn't really so long ago that I was 15. I think about her when I have absolutely no idea what it is that I want to do or be. Not even a vague idea. She had a pretty clear plan for herself. Granted, I think at least part of that plan involved accidentally running into Zach De La Rocha somewhere (since they so often ran in the same circles) and impressing him with wisdom beyond her years. In the letter she asked me if I still wanted to be a rock journalist. I don't know if that's really still a job description. I don't read music magazine anymore. I got rid of my subscription to Rolling Stone and stopped myself from buying a copy at Borders tonight. Taylor Lautner was on the cover. He's 17. There's no way to make that alright. I used to read Spin and Blender but haven't picked up a copy of either of those in forever. The only magazine I have a subscription to is InStyle and that's only because I keep forgetting to cancel it.

It's not like I don't read music reviews anymore. I spend too much time at work on Pitchfork and Tiny Mixtapes. If I hear something, I'll Google it. I check out what people say on iTunes and eMusic. But if anyone can review anything now (if I really wanted to, I could review things here) is there such a thing anymore as the Critic?

I'm getting restless again. It happens every once and a while. I build up energy for whatever reason and I can't get rid of it. I can't seem to channel it into any of my regular outlets and it starts to make me anxious. I have to do something. I take up ridiculous hobbies out of restlessness and make impossible plans. I don't want to do that this time. That feels like wasted energy. It's such a big thing to try and figure out what would make you happy but that's what I want to do. I can't stay at my job forever (it's good for now but it isn't forever) and I sure as shit can't stay in this house forever.

That 15 year-old knew what she wanted out of life. I don't see any reason why I can figure out what a 15 year-old already knows.

must remember what it's like on my end...

So, the blog's been updated a bit. I started it when I was just starting my job and trying to start grad school. Since I'm pretty secure at work now and no longer in grad school, the quips about navigating adulthood and the copious literary allusions (including the title) seem out of place. "Clever with words" how my 9th grade English teacher described me to my 9th grade journalism teacher. It became a kind of joke between me and Rens (the journalism teacher) that stuck with me through high school. I'm hoping the epithet still fits...or if not, I can figure out how to squeeze back into it before too long.

Tonight, I sent out three poems to a magazine that specializes in pieces under 20 lines. I fully expect that they will all be rejected but this is part of it, that whole writing thing, and I have to get rejected to get better to eventually get published...or something like that.

The site (that shall remain nameless) promises to read and respond to my pieces within two weeks. I don't expect that to happen either. Ideally, articles under consideration where I work should be out of the system (after full peer-review) within 45 days. I currently have nine papers beyond that cutoff. Two papers are 80+ days old. One of those papers does not have reviewers. That's not ideal.

Needless to say, when I haven't heard back from the editor in two weeks, I won't be making a phone call or sending an email. The site says to ask for an update four weeks after submission. I'm giving this dude five. I had more than one author call me today irate that I had not made a decision on their very important and potentially groundbreaking work. Because I make those decisions. Because they want me to make those decisions. If it were up to me we'd publish articles on linguistics (because I can understand those), robots (because why not), and how Mike and Ikes are secret superfoods (because they taste like awesome) and how coffee makes you pretty (because I wish it did.) Screw evolution and swine flu, I want a reason to eat Mike and Ikes.

tiny poem not at all related to any ex-boyfriend (or pretend amalgamations of ex-boyfriends)

I wrote this one on Veteran's day...on the metro home from work. I don't know if it's actually self-contained or if I an too busy to finish it. Maybe it needs a last line? I really can't tell so I'm just going to throw it up here for a while.

Nov. 11

The Metro home on Veteran's day
is governmentless. A quiet anarchy
of empty seats and half-personless cars--
silent and nameless without your one-sided
conversations and the plastic clank
of badges against coat buttons.

© meredith c. jones

Pictures

There are no pictures of me and him
smiling and laughing at parties.
We go and come home again after,
undocumented. If someone were to
ask where we went or what happened
we could say nothing at all and keep
the secret to ourselves.

I’ve found so many pictures
of you and me: me with my tongue
stuck out, you mid-chuckle. Both holding
brightly colored drinks and gazing at the other.
Maybe it was the pictures that did us in.
Observation forced order into chaos
because you can’t live up to the face you’re
making.

What could you have said to prompt my tongue?
What could have possibly been that funny?


© meredith c. jones

This is how I know I'd make a malevolent diety...

It was over the night
you fell asleep on my couch
with your shoes still on
and I didn’t think to take
them off and set them
by the door for you
or bring in a blanket
from the other room, turn
off the TV and leave you
alone to sleep.
All I could think was what
might happen when you
woke up to find that I’d
tied your shoe laces together
and gone out to get coffee
and another magazine.

I won't even go into the hands that painted this and what they must look like.

I never cry when it matters. A couple nights before my grandfather died (he'd had a stroke when I was four, this was inevitable), I cried. I don't remember what set me off but I do remember sitting outside the space at the end of the hall between my bedroom and the bathroom and being inconsolable. I think I was crying about him but that wasn't why I'd started crying. I cried when Walt and I broke up, but that was because of the election results. They weren't sad tears. I cried trying to explain Whitman to someone once. I was trying to get across what it felt like (and still feels like) to read the line "one hour to feel sufficient as I am" at 12 years old, in my brother's bedroom. The realization that someone had actually put to words (simple, perfect words) exactly what it was that I desperately wanted but had never (have never) felt. I'm more careful when I explain Whitman now. Not everyone sees why poetry might make you cry.

So it made sense that in the Art Institute, when I accidentally happened upon "The Old Guitarist" I caught a small pooling in the corner of my eye. It wasn't surprising, just a little unexpected. I envy what people can do with their hands. Writers like to talk about writing like it's a craft. Like you could sit at a computer and crank out a chair. But it isn't that. It's all cerebral what I do. You can't see it in calluses or arthritic knots and cricks. I have a small writer's bump on my left middle finger, but it's gone down some since I started typing everything. I barely ever get smudges on the side of my hand anymore. My father built every shelf and cabinet in our house. He curses and sweats and takes forever but when it's all done, he's done it. I watch musicians in the hopes that if I look hard enough, I finally get the trick to moving my fingers that quickly. There has to be a trick to it. They all have hands suited to the job. All calluses and knots and elongated fingers.

The guitarist is curled around his instrument, gaunt and half-dead looking but still playing as if that's what won't allow the other half to give up. Even though he's completely contorted, it's alarmingly natural compared to the other Picassos at the museum. That might be what made me cry. He's human. Irreparably so. He has musician's hands, thin and long. Like his toes...though I don't imagine anyone has musician's toes...

You don't expect this painting to be where it is. Around an unassuming corner. Maybe that's why it's there. I wasn't the only person who turned and stopped dead. I'm not sure anyone didn't do that. The guy next to me, who'd been in many of the same rooms with me as I traced the map of the galleries, stopped just behind me. We both just traipsed through Carvaggio. These huge, Biblical scenes--all opulent purples and purposeful awe. What struck me was how the real the painted robes looked folded over angels and disciples. I wasn't moved. You're supposed to be moved by Carvaggio. It's easy emotion.

But look at this and tell me you wouldn't cry to hear him play.

that message on my phone saturday morning was all I needed to finish this, thanks.

I don't usually post drafts this drafty. Literally, this is the first draft of this, written in the span of a Metro ride and culled from my moleskine. It's taken me a year (give or take a couple weeks) to get anything down on paper about all of this. Every time I would write about him it seemed too emotional still. This might still be that but it's down on paper and since I need to get more things down on paper, I will take it for the time being. I played with my form somewhat and it doesn't quite translate here. All of the lines preceded by an em dash should be indented. Please pretend that the are because I suck at coding . It also doesn't have a title yet. I've been toying with this title: Everything I Meant to Tell You Earlier, in a Series of Poorly Formed Haiku but I don't think it works here. I'll come up with something when I revise this. Let me know what you think of this:



The spaghetti’s still in the sink.
The noodles don’t give way
anymore to water or sauce—
but break when forked
from the collinder into the trash.

—not so much of a change from the night before.

“It’s undercooked,” you said not at me
but at the strands, spooled
uncomfortably around tines,
setting down the fork and carrying
everything back to the kitchen.

This is the call and response part of you and me.

—everything dries out eventually.
—it was dry all along.

Were I to write this scene—
you and me and the pasta,
half in the trash, half in the sink—
the clean lines of the room and us
would give way
to the palsied scrawl
of leaving well enough alone
and the argument we never had
because we never have.

—have we?

Were I to write you
it would be all dead letters and brown
paper-wrapped pornography.
The address isn’t right, the postman
can’t make it out and it sits in a room
with the others. Sits waiting for someone
to make out your concussive Rs and Ks—
to deliver you.

—for thine is the something and the something (I forgot the words to this part. forgive me.)

The Teutonic was always lost on you.
Too hard-edged for your hands
or the hair at the nape of your neck
that curled in on itself when you needed a haircut.
Then again, you never could get your legs that high.

—you make a terrible German. I guess it’s good I never wanted to call you Daddy.

Were I to write you it would be just this—
your back to me, scraping pasta into an empty
trash can and turning
to set the dish, unwashed, in the sink.

—leave the rest to me.


10/18/2009. meredith jones ©

it's funny that it fits my middle finger...

I've been cleaning various odds and ends out of my room in a continual effort to streamline my life. I really have too many things. None (well, most) don't make me particularly happy. They don't make me particularly anything. I'm not clearing things out to make way for more things either. I just have way too much crap and could do with considerably less.

I have a small box wherein I keep old rings, bracelets, earrings, and the like (most of my necklaces are on a jewelry tree for expedient early-morning-coffee-has-not-kicked-in-yet-and-meredith-is-still-a-sleep-zombie access. Also, I rarely wear either rings or earrings. I don't know why, I just prefer necklaces and the occasional bracelet. I was looking through the box full of jewelry I never wear and I came across the claddagh Walt gave me when he went to Ireland. It doesn't fit either ring finger anymore and is currently backwards on my middle finger on my right hand. I haven't worn it in over a year and in the intervening time have apparently lost enough weight that it no longer fits the finger it was originally sized to fit. I can't decide, though, if wearing it all is ok.

I always liked this ring. It's not a strictly traditional claddagh and it's much smaller and more delicate than the one it replaced (which was somewhat destroyed thanks to my overzealous use of bleach when cleaning my dorm bathroom.) But it was a gift from a man whose intention it was to keep it pointed in a particular direction for the rest of my life...except that this ring was not indicative of that desire. It was just a ring --a present, because he knew I wanted a replacement and was in the land of their creation. No pending contractual arrangement attached. Perhaps there was the implication that there might be one one day, but not the day he gave me the ring. Certainly not related to the ring.

Can I wear it? How would I explain it to a new guy? Would he even necessarily notice or ask? Am I obligated to explain the ring to gentlemen callers? It does indicate that I am single. And while I suppose my current situation may generously be described as slightly more complicated than "single" (but that's not something that will ever be discussed here. This is not the place for that), I like this ring and am tired of having it collect dust.

I guess what I am trying to ask is, what's the statute of limitations? I don't have any jewelry from other ex-boyfriends. I don't know how this works. I kept the ceramic cow Mike gave me until it broke and I could not glue it back together (poor cow, I really liked it.) I kept the CDs and books Jim gave me. He also gave me clothes once or twice but none of them fit so they've been given away. Is this ring so very different from the framed Rogue comic that I can't keep it? The comic is still perched on my shelf. I like it. I like the way it looks against my purple walls. When I look at it, I don't think about Walt. When I look at this ring I don't necessarily think about him either.

Can it just be a ring now? Not a ring with an asterisk attached?

Maybe banging things will fix my shit...that's gonna get taken out of context

I was thinking about the Large Hadron Collider this weekend (because that's something you do when you work in such close proximity to scientists--I call it nerd osmosis), and a thought occurred to me. We've built a giant, circular tube so that we can throw things at other things. This is what we do. When we needed a means to keep warm, we banged rocks together until we got fire. It might have just been something we did out of boredom (nothing on the cave wall that day) and fire was just a toasty side effect. Really, how much of science is just a couple of guys throwing things at other things and writing down what happens. Is this something I could apply to my own problems? Can I do this and avoid bruises?