The Ugly Duck

There once was an ugly duckling who was actually a swan. I'm sure you've heard that story. This story is about an ugly duckling who grew up to be an ugly duck. When all of the other birds encouraged her to get out of town, she did. She waddled to the next pond and the birds there called her ugly as well. Everywhere she went she was still herself, and she was still ugly. She was very lonely, and very sad. Imagine, no one would quack with her. No one would wanted to swim with her. She was alone.

Now, I wish this story changed. I wish I could tell you that the ugly duck was also incredibly intelligent, or remarkably brave, but she wasn't any of those things. The only special thing about her was her ugliness. She did become quite stubborn and tough throughout the years. She learned to fight and stand up for herself, but she remained an outcast.

There were good days, of course. She enjoyed leisurely paddles through glorious dawns, particularly tasty morsels of river-weed and the occasional winnings of stale bread from children. She didn't understand the children's comments ("Mommy, is that thing a duck?"), but even if she had she wouldn't have minded.

Eventually, the ugly duck grew old. As an old duck, young ducks no longer expected her to be handsome, and so they treated her the same way that they treated all elders, with a bit of fear, a bit of reverence and a lot of indifference. But the old duck had gotten used to being special, and now that her ugliness had been neutralized she lost her identity. She stared at her reflection with curiosity, "Am I not as ugly today as I was yesterday?" She deliberately swam through muck to try to maintain a certain level of repulsiveness.

When she died, not one duck cared. Her body floated into some reeds where it was devoured by a pack of water rats, who found her stringy, but redeemingly fatty. Soon, all that remained of the ugly duck was a single gleaming bone suspended on top of the water by the reeds.

Stomachache

She sat facing an old love. They sat across a small black wooden table which was placed against a white wall in a room with a black matte tile floor. If she had fully extended her arms, she could have grabbed his shoulders. Before her was an empty plate. Beyond the plate, the table was cluttered with tiny broken figurines made from fragile materials. Her mother, who wasn't her real mother, but a dream mother, had approached and told the tales of the visiting artists who had come to their house and sculpted these scenes, and then, with ardor, how the girl had accidentally destroyed each one.

The first story of destruction the mother told was that of a tin foil girl in a long tin foil dress atop a cardboard turret, peeking out from an embrasure between the battlements.
"Long ago," her mother told the couple siting at the table, "my daughter tripped near this sculpture and pulled it down. The girl stood with a bow and arrow and there was a stairway leading away from the turret if she wanted to retreat. But when my daughter tripped, the tin foil girl lost her arm, lost her weapon, and the stairwell was crushed."

The second story of a wax paper man in a newspaper boat. "Before my daughter sat on this," the mother said, "the man held oars and there whole scene suggested the promise of land. Now it is as if the man is forever marooned."

Description after description floated down upon the couple. Among them: an old woman made of bark who lost her eyes in a game of catch; the scrap metal Father Christmas whose sled was split in two by a swinging ice skate; and a pipe cleaner warrior whose legs had been mangled beyond recognition in an entanglement with a hairbrush.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "I didn't mean to break these things." Her mother receded into a part of the room the girl could no longer see.

"Sometimes, sorry isn't good enough," the old love said with a cruel smile. He started to squash the already damaged figurines with this thumb. The girl watched. She tried to say stop, but her words were not there.

She reached across and grabbed his shoulders. When she touched him, he began shrinking rapidly. She picked him up, and held him until he was the size of her hand. She put him in the turret with the tin foil girl, but he pushed her from the battlements. The girl picked him up again and held him, like a kitten, by the scruff of his neck. He swung furious arms.

On the plate before her appeared two slices of walnut bread. She placed the old lover between the slices. His legs protruded and flailed wildly and she squeezed the bread together. She brought the sandwich to her lips and ate it, relishing the different consistencies of each part of his body. When she was finished, her mother appeared again with a large glass of milk, and she drank it all in one gulp.

Encounter with a psychic

When I was 14, I lived in Ukraine. I had parents lacking any imagination. While that made my life miserable, occasionally it was to my advantage. Once I, quite unexpectedly for myself, left alone on a trip to Moscow to attend a meeting of, mind you, anarchists, and please remember, that was not long after the collapse of the soviet empire, and my mother at least was a staunch communist. I half-heartedly lied to her that I was going to find out what I needed in order to be accepted to Moscow State University. To my astonishment, this lame lie worked like a charm. Later, I did get accepted to Moscow State University, but it had nothing to do with this trip. I got on the train with my classmate, a girl who was much closer to anarchists than I ever was. To tell the truth, being a dreamer, I was not particularly close to any people at all, since I lived in my own world. We shared a compartment with a journalist, a person in his forties who kept us entertained all the time without even trying to. He told us a very long story on how to make borshct, the story that deserves to be told separately, if only I can remember it. When he was changing to sleep (this being quite normal in russian trains), he advised us to close our eyes, since his body was so beautiful that we stood a good chance to be blinded by the sight. Later, he said that he was somewhat of a psychic and he wanted to foretell our future. About my friend, he said that she was going to be a great beauty and lead many men to their downfall. About me, he said I would marry early and be fiercely loyal to my family. This being a time of all kinds of shortages in Ukraine, he actually said: “I can see you fighting to get that chicken for your family”

Boy, was he a lousy fortune-teller. I am a vegetarian.

Nothing Is Wrong

"What is this?" He stared down at his plate.

"What do you mean? It's dinner." She was bustling about the kitchen, putting a frying pan to soak in the sink and wiping down the counter. "Don't wait for me. Go ahead and start."

In front of him, on a purple plate , were fried purple potato wedges, a red kale and red cabbage with red onion stir fry, slices of grilled eggplant, and on a white side dish, what appeared to be purple ketchup.

"For dessert I made a blueberry mousse." She sat down. "Would you like some Pinot Noir?"

"Well, do you have any white wine?"

"Nothing chilled. I have Pinot Noir, grape or pomegranate juice. "

"Pinot Noir sounds lovely, then."

She poured him a glass. They sat facing each other in a room that was half Ikea (her student days), half Crate and Barrel (his more "adult" taste.) The room had a large window overlooking the city. He sat with his back to it.

"So, Patricia, is there any particular reason we are eating only purple foods this evening? Some ancient rite I am forgetting, perhaps?"

"No. No reason. I just was shopping and I thought it would be fun to prepare a purple meal. Ask how I did the ketchup!"

"Did you add blue food coloring?"

"Yes! Isn't it beautiful?" To this there was silence. He forked a purple potato, dipped it in the ketchup and chewed. Patrica was greatly enjoying the stir-fry.

"Patricia... is this a dig at me?"

"What are you talking about?" She took a sip of her wine and stared at a pigeon gliding past their window.

"Did you read the review of my book which lambasted my "purple prose?" He put his fork down.

"Did someone say that? How horrible. And untrue. That is very, very untrue. You write very simply and elegantly. I had no idea anyone wrote that about you. I just was struck by the possibility of making everything purple. It is striking, isn't it?"

"It is unusual to say the least."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes. Lighten up."

"Blue food coloring?" He raised his eyebrows and faked a smile. "To blue food coloring! Cheers." They clinked glasses.

"I'm going to change the subject now. Please just enjoy the food and don't worry about the reviews. How was your day?"

"Oh God. Okay. My day was fine, Patricia, how was your day?"

"Oh, it was the usual. Wake up, exercise, go to work, do work.... have to deal with people... Really, the best part of my day was making this meal for you."

"So.... are you wearing purple underwear under that outfit?"

"I dyed my pubic hair purple."

"You did not!"

"Of course I didn't, but next time I might."

"Do you think there will be a next time?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"It's a pretty good meal."

"Wait until you have the mousse."

"I have something to tell you," he said after a pause and waited until she looked back up at him. "I have been asked to..." He took a sip of wine.

"Yes?"

"I am going to take a teaching position in New York."

"But you know I can't leave here. I have to stay here for another year"

"I do know that. I'm sorry." He poured her some more wine. "We'll figure it out."

"Well. Congratulations." She pushed her plate towards the center of the table.

"You look sad."

"And why do you think that is? Why would I be sad now? Damn it. I can't be nice. This is bad. I want you to leave."

"Now?"

"Go. I need time to think. Go. Go." Pointing at the door.

"Where should I go?"

"I don't care. You can come back later. But go now. Please." All color had left her face.

"Are you sure?" He was shocked.

"Yes. Yes. I need time." He stood up and left the apartment.

He came home hours later and found her fast asleep in bed. Predictably, when he opened the fridge, he saw Patricia had carefully sorted the evening's purple food into separate glass containers. He pulled it out onto the counter, even the untouched purple mousse. Within 10 minutes he had polished it all off. His stomach aching he went to the bedroom and took of his pants. He stared at her for a while, and then laid down on the carpet on her side of the bed and listened to her breathing.

You're So Pretty When You're Faithful To Me

For about year I had the Pixies song "Bone Machine" stuck in my head. More specifically, I had the phrase, "You're so pretty when you're faithful to me" looping around and around.

I was dating this girl then. Elizabeth. She was a pretty girl and she was faithful right up until the end, when all of a sudden, she wasn't. Whenever, under my breath, I started singing this phrase she would say, "Thank you" after I said "You're so pretty..." and then, when she realized I wasn't actually paying her a compliment she blushed, "Oh! I thought you were talking to me." After a few months of this, she said "I always do that!" It was true. She did always do that. Oh pretty girls who know they are pretty. Do I still need to tell them? Yes. Did I? Probably not enough.

This weekend I was watching a lot of movies. It is one of the nicer things I do to give myself a break from my existence. For me, a successful movie is one that completely replaces reality while it is playing. I am more than willing to suspend disbelief. I would live in disbelief if I could. But lots of things can interrupt this suspension. Cliche editing, bad dialogue, cheesy narrative. All of that can ruin a perfectly good exercise in escapism. But this weekend another thing struck me as false, and I am sad about it, because it is a flaw in nearly all movies.

For the first time I was struck by the fact that the vast majority of movies are completely dependent on the appearance of their actors. If the actors were ugly people, then the movies wouldn't be half as interesting. Once I had this thought, it was over. I scrutinized every line uttered, not for plausibility, but for the possibility that I would be interested in it if an ugly or even a plain looking actor was saying it. I could give examples, but I am sure you are capable of thinking of your own. Even Arts movies fall into this trap. Especially Arts movies, perhaps.

Anyway, that was what got me thinking about Elizabeth, because she was a pretty girl. Really. Long legs, pert nose, that amazing combination of blue eyes and brown hair. I was lucky to have ever dated a girl like her. I wonder, though, if she would have been so interesting if she wasn't as pretty. Could I have loved someone exactly like her, who made the same mistakes and did the same annoying things she did if she had been unattractive, faithful or not?

I wish I could say yes. So I suppose it isn't really a fault of the movies. But who is interested in what the unattractive have to say?

The House

I saw my love’s house in a dream. He invited all of us over for a party. His home occupied a space of a regular, not-too-big apartment in a bleak building, but inside, through a well-known miracle, it was a huge house with its own outdoor space. They even had their own weathers and times of day. It was dark and wintery outside, but in the huge garden where you got once you entered through the door it was a golden summer afternoon. There were children playing in the distance; my love’s small son was riding a bicycle. His wife, who I did not know at the time, was passing through the rooms, always just at the side of my vision. Inside, the house resembled a living creature, rather than a dull product of the labors of builders. The rooms were of unusual shapes and all at different levels. There was a long room curving like a snail’s shell. When one got to the other side of the house, one found out that it was situated on the shores of its private sea, and there was a very long glass gallery hanging above its tempestuous waters without supports. It was sunrise time over here, and one could walk all the way to the end of the gallery and feel in the middle of elements, for the weather was stormy.

I had another dream. This time, my love’s abode was a large and very old palace. He and his wife were talking softly and laughing in the sun that poured through the windows. I was trying to find my way out, but the palace was huge. There seemed to be no end to its rooms. Sometimes I thought that I found my way outside, but then it turned out that what I took for a garden were trees in planters, and the sky was painted on the ceiling.

Bodies

At the gym, the focus is the body. Everyone in spandex, sneaking glimpses of each other and of themselves. The occasional polite social smile, the personal bubbles of silent focus.

"She is too thin... Is she really lifting that much?... I want to look like that...Oh God, is that me in the mirror?... Is that what I look like?... I am thinner than her, but her shape is nicer...Are those real?... When I am her age, I hope I look like that... I must keep going... My hamstrings ache, but that's how I'll get stronger... I have to work off that cake I ate earlier... Fatty... He didn't want you because of your sausage shape...No one will ever love you....Ugh, the only reason you think like that is because you have been brainwashed. You are here to be strong, not to look good..."

That was where they met. How he managed to attract her attention over the silent din of self-judgment, she never knew. Equally mysterious was why he had chosen to speak to her instead of the hundreds of much prettier girls surrounding them. Perhaps he had low self-esteem or was looking for a easy mark. In any case, she had liked him, with his funny insecure gym body. He worked obsessively on his upper body, but sorely neglected his legs. Skinny adolescent legs with a large torso. Even within his upper body was variation: excellent biceps, slight triceps, strong latissimus dorsi but completely neglected anterior deltoids, all framing a magnificent chest. He was uneven, and she found this charming.

Their first conversation was about the 15 lb medicine ball she was using during some sit up exercises. He commented that she was using a lot additional weight for sit ups ("You must have strong abs!) She put the weight down and explained that it was because she had put on 15 pounds over the past 10 years and she didn't want to forget that she should lose it and then immediately regretting having said this. For one thing, it wasn't true. Secondly, she was trying to practice being gracious.

"You don't look like you've put on fifteen pounds!" Astonished! She was tempted to grab his hand and direct it to her soft love handles, but smiled enigmatically instead.

Around them was a slow blur of spandex bodies lifting metal objects under florescent lighting. Some people groaned on machines. Others stood in a variety of poses shifting weights back and forth, back and forth. Everyone moved in half time in the turgid, sweat saturated air. One fat, but athletic blond walked by in tight black; her body looked like a seal.

"Anyway, I see you here a lot." He said, smiling.

"Yeah. I come a lot. I live close by, and it is a nice way to unwind after work... You come a lot, too!" She finished her set of repetitions and stood to chat. She was much shorter than him.

"What do you do? Is your work stressful?" He stepped back.

"Oh. Actually, I don't work anymore. Well, I do. But, yes, it is a bit stressful." She was glad her face was already red from exercise. Her situation was complicated and describing it was always awkward.

"Huh."

"What do you do?" She steered the conversation.

"I am in financial services, but I don't know if I can stand it for much longer." He smiled.

"Right."

"Well, I'm Frank." His teeth reflected the yellow of the lights down upon her.

"I'm Melanie. Nice to meet you." They shook hands.

"Nice to meet you too." She lay back down to finish her sit ups and he went back to exhaust his proud pectoral muscles.

And the next time they crossed paths, they spoke again.

"Hey Frank..."
"Hi Melanie!"

And the time after that. And finally, they found themselves on a date outside the gym for sushi . And then, just like that, they found themselves busily under her covers.

He did have strong arms, and she did have strong abs. At the initial unveiling they were modest and focused on each others lips and faces. The lights were off and their bodies seemed to glow against the deep blue of her sheets. They appreciated each other piecemeal. Legs were out of sight, buried in the nest of sheets and blankets. As they moved, and the covers slipped, more was revealed: quadriceps, lower back, calves and napes of necks. Eventually, the parts became unified into Frank and Melanie again. She noticed his smile, the curve of his arm, the position of his torso. Then they were surrounded by noises: nervous giggles, sighs, moans, squelches, more giggles, skin slaps, more moans, then silence, then breathing.

The covers around their ankles they lay back in the bed. Not touching. Not looking.

"Can I get you some water?" Shyly.

"I don't need anything right now." Exhausted. He turned on his side and looked at her. "I have to go soon."

"I know." She remained still, but her mind was jumping with sensations of what had just passed.

"Is that okay that I leave?" He reached for her waist.

"Of course it's okay. I have to get up very early tomorrow." She was at rest, full and happy. He fell asleep next to her by mistake. She poked him a few times to try to wake him, but he was out. After a few attempts, she covered him with the sheets and got up. On the way to the kitchen for water, she paused in front of the mirror, pushed the matted hair out of her eyes and flexed her muscles.

Accident

The car and the cyclist had been parallel. Both facing the same red light. The cyclist was just to the right of the car. When the light turned green, both started moving. The cyclist moved forward, but the car turned right, crashing into the cyclist and propelling him simultaneously forward and to the right. He was shocked by the strong warm pressure of the car pushing into his leg. There was a loud nose when the car hit, and the a louder screech, followed by the sight of the cyclist being pushed forward into the intersection.

He was lucky. He slammed his feet down quickly and didn't fall. He stood, straddling his bike, in the middle of a busy intersection on Telegraph. He didn't feel any pain, but was aware of many people staring at him. The cyclist's first thought was that the pedal of his bike might have scratched the car. He was concerned. He looked back to see if the driver was mad. It was a very old woman. She was tiny, barely visible behind the wheel. She gestured for him to move forward. The met on the other side of the intersection.

First, he apologized. Then, she apologized. He peered into her large beige car. Her legs were covered with a thick tartan blanket, even though it was a warm day. Her walker rested on the passenger's seat. She was trembling, and her voice quivered with shock. She had thinning white hair and kind lines on her face. He said that he felt fine, because, at that moment, he did. She asked him if he needed a ride, and he politely declined. He wished her a nice day, as if he had been her server at a particularly friendly coffee shop, and continued on his way home.

After saying goodbye, he found himself wanting to cry. Pain is always a revelation. Every time experienced, it is as if for the first time. "So, this is pain." Not too recently, he had experienced pain from love, though now he had forgotten the feeling, even forgotten the love. He only remembered his body's reactions to the pain, but not the sensation itself. He remembered opening his mouth in his bed and a whispered scream forcefully escaping and the following sharp tightness around his chest when he tried to inhale. He had been struck by the paradox that while was glad that there was no one to see him, he hated being alone.

But this was pain out in the open, on a glorious sunny day in Berkeley, California. He had left behind the old woman and everyone who had seen the accident accident. He pulled over to the side of the road. He felt a slow throbbing in his ankle.

"I got hit by a car! I'm ok. My bike is ok." He sent a text to everyone who he thought might care. He didn't send it to anyone who had ever caused him pain, as they, clearly, didn't care. He didn't text his parents. He didn't like to worry them unnecessarily, and telling them that he had been hit by a car would make it a larger experience than he was ready to comprehend.

Slowly, over the evening, calls and text messages relayed warm wishes. He sat in his room, and the pain had already faded to a dull ache. He put ice on his ankle and elevated it. He wished for company. Eventually, he called his mother who immediately started to cry.

"You are always so brave," she said.

Stories

Sally was on the smallish side for a six year old, and she stared out across her grandmother's wide kitchen table. Today, she had chosen to sit at the head of the table, in a high backed chair with arms and a worn leather seat. When she was young she had insisted that she be addressed as Queen Semolina when she sat in this chair. Before her was a large bowl of red grapes. Sally peeled the skin off the grapes before she ate them. She ate the skin, then squished the flesh against the top of her mouth. She swallowed the seeds.

"Grandma, tell me a story," she said. Grandma was sitting on an exercise ball by the window in her bedroom. She didn't reply. She was trying to teach Sally not to call out from another room.

"Grandma, come and tell me a story!" She shouted. Sally peeled another grape while she waited. Grandma pretended to be engrossed in a book.

"Grandma? Are you there?' Sally asked, popping the grape into her mouth. Grandma turned the page. Sally slid off the chair, under the table and crawled to the door of the room where her Grandma sat reading. She peered around the door. Grandma was wearing hot pink workout gear, and with a very erect spine, was reading a book about medieval musical instruments.

"Meow," said Sally.

"Meow meow," replied her Grandma.

"Will you tell me a story, Grandma?" Sally crawled into the room and curled up by the exercise ball.

"Shall I tell you the one I told yesterday?" Grandma asked, closing her book.

"No! This time tell me a happy story."

"A happy story... Let's see... I think I can tell you a happy story." Grandma slid off the exercise ball, started to stroke Sally's hair, and began.

"Once upon a time there was a prince."

"Was that Grandpa?"

"No, dear. Your Grandpa was no prince. So there was a prince, who wasn't Grandpa. He was a rogue, though, a shame to his family. At night time he left he castle to go to the peasant quarters and hurt their livestock and put poison down their wells. They called him The Very Bad Prince at first, but soon they started to call him the VB Prince, and eventually just the VBP.

The VBP was relentless in his desire to do bad. So, the villagers killed him. They did it humanely, because they were not Very Bad, like the prince. This was how they did it: The palace cook slipped an overdose of sleeping poison into the VBP's dinner one night and before he could go out to wreck havoc upon the village livestock, he fell into a gentle sleep and died. Rumor had it that he had a smile on his face.

They buried him. The end." Sally stood up.

"Grandma, that isn't a happy story." She pointed a finger at Grandma.

"Well, I think it is happy. It was happy for the villagers."

"Make it longer." Sally sat down and rested her head in Grandma's lap.

"OK. Well, the cook, the one who poisoned the VBP became very famous. Not for having disposed of the VBP, but because he made the richest dark chocolate cake in the kingdom. He knew how to take precious jewels and make them taste like candy. The cake was drizzled with gold, and encrusted with diamonds. It was truly delicious. People who tasted this cake even once were ruined for the rest of their lives. Nothing ever tasted good to them ever again.

The Cook was famous, but he was lonely. He had all the riches and acclaim that a man could want, but he had no one to love, and he felt unknown. No one noticed what time he woke up or went to bed. If he accidentally gained thirty pounds (which was easy to do with his cake around), no one cared. He wanted a wife and maybe even a child. He wished more than anything for someone to love, and for someone to love him back.

One night, a fairy appeared to him. She was a scrumptious fat fairy with hairy legs and a top hat. The fairy told him that he was pregnant. The cook was astonished. He protested that he would rather have a woman who was pregnant, but the fairy just laughed and told him that sometimes the best things in life were unexpected.

Anyway, the chef's child turned out to be your Grandpa. That is why your Grandpa made such wonderful birthday cakes for you when he was alive. He didn't learn how to turn jewels into food, but he learned how to bake. The end."

"Grandma, is that true?" Sally looked up at Grandma.

"Of course, it is true."

"I'm going to ask Dad," she squinted up into Grandma's eyes.

"Go right ahead."

"I don't think it's true."

"I didn't think it was true when Grandpa first told me, but then I accidentally sat on the fat fairy and killed her and when we buried your Grandpa, I put the fairy in his grave too. That's how I knew it was true."

"Grandma!"

"She was fat, but still small."

"Grandma. You are very silly."

"That I am."

"Will you tell me another silly story?"

"Meow," replied Grandma.

"Meow meow." The two crawled on the floor like cats and then pretended to sleep in the sun.

The Mouse

Preface:
I want to write a fable about someone who accidentally gives her power away. A story with zero subtlety. One that will remind me, and any others like me, that it is important to hide one's vulnerability. I am writing this preface in case I fail in my efforts for clarity. The moral of this story is that it is unwise to deliberately, or accidentally, make oneself weak.

The Mouse:
Once, there was a mouse. She was a busy mouse and she ran to and from her house each day gathering food for the day, and for the future. She loved her house, and relaxed in it whenever she had the time. Most days she was a happy mouse. Some days the weather would be bad, or food would be difficult to obtain, and so she would be less happy. Other times, for no apparent reason, she was sad.

It was on one of these sad days that she met a handsome marmalade cat with emerald eyes. She was moping about the garden listlessly. He was sprawled out in a patch of sun on a patch of green grass the same color as his eyes. The cat was not interested in the mouse. He was an old spoiled, well-fed house cat. He didn't need to chew on stringy furry mice like her. Unlike most cats, he didn't even really enjoy hunting; he much preferred sitting on his mistress's knee.

"Hello Miss Mouse," he said, more out of boredom than anything else. The mouse squeaked.

"Hello Cat."

"You look sad today, Mouse."

"I am sad today, Cat. If you want to eat me, I won't mind." The mouse threw herself at the cat's feet.

"Is that so," Cat wondered. He had just eaten a big bowl of mackerel and didn't have much appetite. Also, hunting an animal strewn before him wasn't much of a challenge. He was a cat, though, and so he was curious about this small sorrowful creature before him. He wanted to know more about her. "I don't think I'm hungry today, Miss. If you want, you can climb up on my back and I'll take you home."

Mouse was surprised. If he took her home, he would know where she lived and then her home wouldn't be safe. However, because she was sad, she didn't care.

"Oh, Cat. You are behaving strangely for a cat. I have never been on a Cat's back before, and perhaps it will cheer me." She climbed up his onto his marmalade back and crouched there. She clung onto his tail when he started to move. She directed him past the azaleas, through the hydrangeas, and then under the willow tree to her mouse hole. He flopped down and she climbed off. She hugged his front paw goodbye and he purred.

"Bye, Miss M. I hope you feel better. "

"Bye Bye, Cat. Thank you." Seeing the small outside hole where she lived satisfied the cat's curiosity. He returned to laze in the sun and promptly forgot the encounter. The Mouse, a bit tired after her adventure, and still a little sad, decided she should rest in bed.

The next day, when the sun came up, the mouse jumped up with it. She felt well rested and ready to gather food. She was happy. Then, she remembered that she had shown the cat where she lived. From that day on she could never again fully enjoy her little house, despite her happy temperament, because she was worried that the cat could return and eat her up.

Snowy Drive or When Will I Ever Grow Up?

I don't drive. I never have. It is always something that I consider learning, but never seriously pursue. Not driving has been both a blessing and a bind. In recent years people have started praising me for not driving as I am not contributing to global warming. This is an unintentional benefit, and while I am happy I am not harming anyone, I can't claim any deliberate sacrifice to be revered.

One of the biggest consequences of not driving is that I have spent a lot of my life in the passengers seat, staring out the window and daydreaming while someone else does the hard work. In this sense, there is nothing noble about my not driving. It is a selfish choice. Once I heard a man brag to a friend about how he was excited that his girlfriend didn't drive-- I wasn't sure why he was so excited. Did he imagine it signified her passivity? Was he thrilled by the novelty of it? Personally, I always think it is a rather shameful thing to admit to new dates, tantamount to admitting an inability to take care of myself.

A benefit of being a passenger, though, is that I have met many people through needing rides to and from places. This was especially true when I lived in Massachusetts. I went to college in Western Mass, but liked to go to rock concerts in Boston, Cambridge and New York. I met many people who turned into good friends from posting on online bulletin boards to find rides to shows. I always shared the price of gas and promised people a mix tape or mix cd and some snacks in return for their generosity.

I started hanging out with a much older man this way. He was a bit of a sad case, if I appraise his situation clearly. He was in his late thirties, single, unemployed and most of his thoughts seemed to be concerned with contemporary rock music. He was also sad about his last girlfriend having left him four years before. Four years before, I had been sixteen. I didn't really understand his sadness, but there was something compelling about it. I wanted to understand it, the same way that I wanted to understand Tolstoy and Lotte Lenya's voice.

One winter night, after seeing a show of bands from D.C. at a famous basement club in Cambridge we started the two hour drive back home. It was snowing and while this made the ride beautiful, I could tell it made him tense. I was excited after the show, but because I didn't want to compound his stress, I was quiet. He had decided to drive on the back roads, and I didn't understand why. The highway would have been salted and plowed, but these roads were slippery and untouched. At times the road was buried under the snow and I could tell he was just guessing which way to point the car.

What had initially been light snow, turned into something much heavier. The countryside was unlit, save for his headlights, and I was mesmerized by way the deluge of falling white snow seemed to curve towards the car. His car always smelled like spilled coffee and this particular evening it also smelled like donut frosting. He put on a CD by Smog. It was the first time I had heard Bill Callahan's music. The snow seemed to be dancing down to the irregular rhythms of the music, and now, and I expect for evermore, listening to his early guitar playing conjures white flakes against a dark sky in my mind.

He pulled off the road, but kept the engine running; he kept the lights and music on.

"We need to stop here for a bit. It is too hard to drive." He said. I wanted to get home, but I didn't want to tell him this, so I said nothing.

"Right there. That's an abandoned paper mill." He told me. I stared through the snow and almost could make out the gray silhouette of a large building. "It's on the river. They used the water as energy. I used to play here as a kid."

I couldn't imagine him as a child. The longer I stared at the mill, the less distinct the shape became. The snow became paper pouring from the broken windows. The mill seemed to grow in size. I couldn't tell what were the trees around it and what was part of the building. He got out of the car and walked towards the mill.

I watched his back in the headlights. He was tall and too thin. Like someone who just lives on rice. I know he ate more than he seemed, but when I visited his house he only had a box of macaroni and cheese on the shelf and a unopened cloth bag of white rice. He was soon swallowed by the darkness. I didn't know what I would do if he didn't come back. It wouldn't be light for about six hours and, despite having the keys in the car, I didn't know how to drive for help. My canvas shoes would not offer any protection against the snow and I didn't want to leave the car.

During the thirty minutes he was gone, I cycled through worry and a disciplined optimism. I made plans. I'd stay in the car until morning and then walk on the road to the next town and explain the situation. I didn't want to look for his body on my own.

He came back, though, his lank wet hair frozen in places. His blue lips were shaped into an unfamiliar smile. He said that the snow was now falling lightly enough for him to drive me home. I felt more alone when he returned than when he gone. I asked if I could help him in any way, and he turned the music up.

Tunnel

After journeying about twenty feet into the tunnel, we stopped speaking. In front of us there was darkness and behind us the same. The tunnel had rounded a bend, and we had seen the daylight fade behind the curved rails and craggy walls after about fifteen feet. She had left the flashlight at her place, but we had decided to walk through the old train tunnel anyway. The tunnel smelled alive: fresh, moldy, and green. She had come here on her own before, with a flashlight, and she had brought me here to share this place with me. We were sharing favorite experiences. I heard the bottom of her jeans trailing along the metal and loose rocks of the tracks. I pictured the way the jeans got tight above her knees. I had never dated a girl with strong legs before. I didn't know how I felt about those legs, but, in the tunnel, I was glad for her strength.

We walked parallel to each other on the tracks. We knew not to walk into the walls by sliding one food along the rails. I was terrified of hearing anything else moving. I was suprised by how frightened I was of the dark.

On the train ride here (which went through the new tunnel) we had chatted seamlessly, weaving the story of our lives together into a beautiful new garment which we were happy to cloak ourselves in. We were both new to the concrete metropolis where we had met. We were both English majors. Both observer types. And we both loved playing the guitar. There were differences, of course. She had spent the first few months in the city leaving the urban area as soon as possible, and learning all the interesting hiking trails in the area and identifying all the local fauna and flora. I had ridden my bike around the various neighborhoods, noting the different microcultures and learning where to buy drugs. My parents were divorced, her's happily married. She was a vegetarian. She grew up rescuing small spiders. I was a unrepentant omnivore. I grew up taking cows to the abattoir with my dad. I thought we might complement each other.

We had kept talking as we left the station, passed the reflecting rice field and started our walk along the gorge. It was hot and humid. We could hear cicadas and gnats kept flying around us. We walked along a path that had been blasted in the middle of a cliff. Below us ran a wide river and much above us we saw trees. She had brought sweet buns from a famous bakery and she offered me one just as I started to feel hungry. The river was low, but she said that in the spring it had been much higher. We could see straight through it to the multicolored rocks on the bottom. It reminded me of the valley where I had grown up. It reminded her of walking along a pebbled beach. The path, though once just rockface, was now overgrown with sweet ripe blackberries and our fingers and mouths were soon stained deep purple. Overhead, we heard a loud shriek. She had seen baby hawks here in the spring.

After an hour more of conversation we reached the tunnel, our bodies and faces flushed from the exercise and the excitement of feeling understood. It was then she realized she had lost the flashlight. We weren't sure whether or not to proceed. The tunnel was long, she explained, and terrifying even with a light. I didn't mind leaving and returning another day. I was happy to just spend time with her. She decided that it would be a shame for us to have taken the trip without completing our mission, and I, wanting to please her, agreed.

We were talking about the film director Lars Von Trier as we entered the tunnel. Our first date had been to see Dancer In The Dark, which had left her in an emotional stupor and me nonplussed and more than a little bit irritated. She had gripped my hand during the hanging scene, and that had, too, had irritated me. It was cold in the tunnel. My sweat-soaked clothing became instantly clammy. Our conversation faded with the rescinding warm light. We stopped talking. The silence of the tunnel was insurmountable. At the opening there had been a faint breeze, but after a while, there was nothing, just coldness. It was a cold I had never felt before. In high school, I had a reoccuring nightmare about being shut in the walk-in freezer at the cafe where I worked. This tunnel was that kind of cold. It felt as if the walls were alive and generating cold the same way a human body generates heat.

We walked for a long time. Maybe for ten minutes. Inexplicably, though I couldn't see anything, some parts of the darkness seemed brighter than others. I imagined textures and patterns in the blackness. I wanted to reach out and the walls, but I was afraid of reaching out my hand and not being able to see it. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I it didn't feel like an appropriate gesture.

"Do you feel that?" I asked her.

"No."

"There is a breeze."

"I don't feel anything."

But there was a slight breeze, and it indicated that we were nearing the end of the tunnel. Just a few steps further and the wall ahead of us was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight. We saw the jagged carved rock, rotting tracks and metal rails that had been our companions all along. As we left the tunnel, our eyes winced in self-protection at the sun's warm light. We sat down in relief. We had emerged in a wooded area, and we sat between the shadows of branches. I moved in to kiss her, to seal our successful fate, and she permitted a kiss. It was like a frozen blackberry. I went to hug her, but she pulled away. "I'm too cold to touch," she told me. She did some jumping jacks and deep knee bends, and I watched, wanting some human comfort.

Much later that night we made love for the first time. Her body was again cold and she was silent the entire time, in a way that reminded me of one sad old cow at the abbatoir.

To A Personal Hero

Dear Mr. Salinger,

Fuck you and fuck your Glass Family. Fuck Franny. Fuck Zooey. Fuck Seymour and Buddy. Also, for extra measure, fuck Esme with her precocious verbal ability and her slender beauty.

"I'm just too beautiful and gifted and smart. It is so hard to know as much as I do and not be unhappy. Oh, I am so ruined by all this knowledge and innate talent. It is incredibly difficult to understand human nature as deeply as I do. I wish I didn't judge other people so harshly. Yet, I am so kind for finding other people's flaws charming and human."

They are disgusting.

What about the rest of us, Salinger? Us mediocre folk? Those of us that are plain? We who are left by our lovers for others more beautiful? Who are only of average intelligence? Who don't know everything? With childhoods untainted by the curse of others' curiosity?

Please permit me tell you:

We don't want the Glass family's understanding or pity. We don't want their compassion. It is appalling. They are right to feel self contempt. But a whole book of their self contempt due to their dismay at human nature? Several books? Also, we don't want to read an author writing sentences for one character that he then has another character describe as "clever." That, Mr. Salinger, is egotistical.

Fuck you. Understand that your navel gazing self pity makes you ugly.

Ugly just like my handsome genius manchild of an ex-lover.

Which is why I am so mad, of course. I know. I am as transparent as this empty glass. But fuck, I feel like Franny all the time. We all do. So why did you have to make them so golden? So much better than us? I can forgive your Glass family for feeling superior to everyone else. You created them to be superior. But you create the sense that when I feel superior to others, your Glass family would be horrified, disgusted. Zooey would be astonished that a simpering average adult like me feels such contempt for those around her. Or, perhaps, he would find this flaw of mine charming. He and Franny would judge me as they would a child who boasts about running faster than her younger sister.

I understand, though, perhaps. It isn't that you don't understand that average people feel the same way as your brilliant Glasses. It's that you know that no one cares about average people.

Can't wait for a new book,

A Fan

Relief

Tonight, at 8:18, she got the text.

"Hug?"

She didn't reply.

They were both single. Nightly, she and her neighbor would text or IM the other, then they would walk out onto the sidewalk in front of her house and hug goodnight. It was certainly a sweet routine. She knew that he would rather the hug progressed to something more, but she was noncommittal.

Last night, she had changed out of her pajamas for the hug. She put on a violet skirt and a black top. She noticed in the mirror that her breasts looked larger than usual. Perhaps her period was coming. She ran down the stairs, opened the front door, then the gate and waited under the tree. She didn't know what kind of tree it was, but it had waxy deep green leaves and hummingbirds flew around it in the early morning. When she had time she lay in bed and stared at them.

She started to march in place to stay warm.

"Boo!" He jumped up from behind a car.

"You scared me."

"Hug?"

The hug was unremarkable. She gave him the same big squeeze she gave everyone. It was supposed to inspire trust and a feeling of safety. He had broad shoulders, but was short, like her. He had blue eyes. She listened to him talking and pretended to ignore when he stared at her chest.

He told her about her day. Lots of plans: some little, some big. She nodded.

"I have to go."

"But you just got here!"

"I'm cold in this skirt." It wasn't a lie. She could feel the goosebumps on the backs of her legs.

"One more hug?" He smiled, and she knew she couldn't ever feel anything but pity for him.

This time, instead of squeezing, she went limp. She rested on his shoulder. She couldn't remember a time when her back had felt so loose. He pulled her tighter and started caressing her slowly. She grew aware that she was supposed to kiss him, or to cry, or something.

"OK! I have to go. Goodnight!" She pulled away, fumbled with her keys, opened the two gates and climbed back to her bedroom. She hurried back into her pajamas, dropping the skirt and shirt onto the floor and fell back on top of her still made bed wishing she was someone else.

Later, Though the Dinner was Delicious, They Didn't Enjoy It

"Let's stay and watch the seals go out to sea," Lousie cried out. Pytor raised his eyebrows the way he did when he disproved.

"Oh, I don't know. That could take hours. They'll go out when the tide is up to the cliff."

The seals were about ten feet from the cliff. There were over one hundred of them lying on the sand like sacks of grain. They lay almost on top of each other. Occasionally, one would roll over, or shuffle forward, soon to become still again. About twenty feet above them, on a cliff protected by Montery Cyprus, sat Louise and her boyfriend. Their faces were aglow in the light of the sun, which was enjoying a leisurely July descent over the Pacific. Lousie leaned back on her hands, her gaze fixed on the seals.

"We should stay. I have never seen a whole flock of seals go out to the ocean before. And what else do we have to do? When will we ever have the chance to do this again?"

Pytor leaned back on his arms.

"So you think it is "a flock of seals?"

"Mmmmm.... A pack of seals? An assortment of seals? A seal of seals."

"Do you really want to stay? It will take a long time," he reflected.

"I do. It will be fantastic."

They sat. It was early in the evening, not yet six o' clock. The seals would be there for a long time.

"Look!" She pointed at the ocean.

"What?" He had been looking elsewhere.

"When the waves crash down over that reef the sun backlights the wave and all of the seaweed makes silhouettes."

"I don't see it."

"Well, you have to wait for a wave."

"I'm waiting."

They sat and she stared at the waves. Sometimes the waves would land a little further on the shore and splash the seals. They didn't mind enough to move.

"Hey! Did you see that?" She asked him.

"What?"

"The seaweed illuminated!"

"I missed it. Sorry. I was thinking about something else." He lay back and looked up at a cloudless pale blue sky.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Oh. Nothing. We don't have to talk about it."

She took a sweatshirt from her bag, bunched it up into a ball, lifted his head and then placed the shirt under it.

"Are you thinking about work?"

"If you don't mind, I'd really rather not talk about it."

"Is everything OK?"

"Yes. Everything is fine. Enjoy the seals. We are here for the seals."

"If you are sure everything is okay."

He pulled a corner of the sweatshirt over his face. She leaned too look at the seals. The tide had splashed over a bundle of seals particularly close to the ocean. They lifted their heads from their lazy slumber.

"Pytor! I think the seals are going to move! They are moving."

"They aren't going to move until the tide is fully in. That will take a long time."

"But they are moving. Oh. No. Only one of them moved. Oooh, Pytor, I think I see a baby one."

Pytor remained lying down.

"Pytor, do you mind that we are staying? I mean, are you OK?"

"Yes. Please enjoy this moment. I am enjoying lying here and when the seals finally do move, I will look at them with you."

"I'm going to count the seals."

"Great." She counted them forwards and backwards and got different counts each time. Pytor started to snore. Lousie rested her hand on his thigh and squinted into the sun. She frowned, then smiled. Her lips moved and silently formed words of love, and then she smiled again. She ran her fingers up and down the inseam of Pytor's jeans. He slept.

As the tide came in, the seals inched closer to the cliff wall. "They are so lazy," she said aloud. "Just so so lazy."

The sun seemed as lazy as the seals. It barely seemed to move. She watched the seals as they propelled themselves forward with their short flippers and muscular bodies. Once they were in the water, they were so graceful. On land they were clumsy and comical. Yet, in order to conserve energy, they stayed on land resting for as long as possible before returning to the sea to fish until low tide again.

She lay down next to Pytor and took the sweatshirt off his face. The sun was lower in the sky now, and his dark stubble cast long shadows accross his face. Lousie stroked it absentmindedly and accidentally fell asleep.

Pytor rolled over onto her. "Wake up, Lou! I'm a seal! It's time to wake up!" Lousie opened her eyes. The sun was gone. She peered over the cliff and the seals had gone, too.

"We missed them."

"We did." Pytor pulled her back towards him.

"No. Let's go. Its cold now." She broke from his grasp and stood up. He looked up at her. Her black hair stood out against the bright but sunless sky. Her face was dark.

"You really wanted to see them go into the ocean."

"Yeah."

"We can try to see them again." He offered, standing up as well.

"I guess so. Let's go." They started walking and he noticed she hugged herself in the cold. He handed her the sweatshirt and as she pulled it over her head she tripped on a branch and scraped her knee. Blood stained the hem of her skirt.

"Shit. This is new," she muttered.

"I knew it was a bad idea to stay," Pytor said.

Alone at Sunset

If we had been together, I would have been so unhappy.
But I am unhappy anyway.

You Laughed Out Loud

Despite
Your paunch,
Your yellowing teeth,
Your knee-jerk cynicism,
I do love you.

We sat opposite each other,
Me, with a large coffee,
You, with a chocolate croissant.
Me, with a wedding ring,
You, with a freshly shattered heart.

"It's been a long time."
"It has."
"Do you still like horror movies"
"Does the sun still shine?"
"I still don't like them."

"I'm so happy for you."
"Thanks. I'm glad we can see each other."
"You were the first person I called when I got to town."
There were chocolate stains around your lips.
I remember a time when I would have licked you clean.

Then, my lunch break was over.
A quick hug goodbye.
A promise to meet in a few years.
When I have children I want them to know you.
We'll all eat sweets and you'll tell them how their mother was frightened during horror movies.

Your Former Subject

When I was young, I used to mentally age people. In classes, at parties, anytime I was bored, I would stare at people and imagine them old. Young beauties would coarsen and thicken, frown lines deepened and erect spines became bent. I did it with strangers as well as intimates. With the latter, as my knowledge of the individual grew, my vision would alter to adjust to new insights: smile lines crinkled around the lips, botoxed foreheads would stiffened, or thick muscles turned wiry.

I am older, and this game no longer interests me. Perhaps it is because my friends are becoming old and so the exercise is rendered useless. I can stare down at my still child-sized hands and see my own skin engraved with time. Now, I find myself imagining people as they were when they were young. Sometimes this is easy, such as when people are eating ice cream or a fresh custard bun. Other times it is like chiseling marble, trying to find the perfect form lying within. I have to remove the make up, the suit of armor, the practiced poise. In the end, I find the child: happy or frightened, but uninhibited. I see him or her squatting down engrossed in the movements of a caterpillar, anxiously anticipating the comforting arms of a late parent, or frustrated by the lack of freedom on the first day of school.

Now, when I look at you, who I have grown to know so well, time collapses into a kaleidoscope of known and imagined journeys. You were, perhaps, an uncoordinated, shy child who lived mainly in a constructed world made safe by the accumulation of facts and the calculation of figures. You were uncertain physically, and this made you charming to adults, but a target to other children. Like most children, you could be lovely. You could also be intolerant, impatient and demanding. As you grew older you became stronger. You pushed yourself in every way imaginable. Your focus was always yourself; all paths led inward. As an old person, you will stand tall, physically and intellectually strong, but your face will bear the lines of an emperor whose kingdom has migrated away.