Snowstruck

Sometimes it falls fast
Gravity sucks it into immediate accumulation
It is perpendicular to everywhere you're supposed to be
A strobing curtain over necessities
You see them only in prettified flashes

But when it falls slowly
Skimming the seamless levels of wet air
It traces a path to the inevitable ground
Just so.

I can look up to it
From the cozy, cold bed of its ancestors
Wondering if this flake
This perfect Chosen One
From the farthest reaches of my assisted eyesight
Will be lucky and light
Unacquired by the clumps
Who would commandeer its particular pattern

Will make its way to the fine fuzz of my cheek
Hover
Through my longest inhale of winter
Warming itself in the bedazzlement of my smile.

La vague des passions.

I was about to write in my journal tonight, and then I thought about writing a letter to one of my penpals, and then I realized that I wanted to post something on the internet. My hesitation in all of this was that I had nothing to say. I have scattered thoughts - my nephew's voice, the side of my mother's face, the tiny Dr. Seussical island on sunny Jamaica Pond, all of which are incredibly sad and beautiful to me. Sometimes my lonely humanity consumes me, and I can't breathe, and I can't move my back.

Last night, Don Draper said that his heart was going to explode. He said that he'd spent his life as a father trying to feel the love he should have for his kids. And then the time he actually felt it, he felt like his heart was going to explode. And I wonder why? Because heart exploding is what fatherly love feels like to him? Or because that was the perceived effect of finally embodying this long-awaited state? Or would the explosion have been a reaction to what he finally felt, and is that somehow related to all the time he spent not feeling it? Either way, Don Draper is a complicated man, with a lot of feelings, with art in his lens and an isolating attachment to his melancholy. He keeps wanting it to connect him to people, but it ultimately renders him incapable of giving love, because he prioritizes his psychological mysteries over the real-time needs of people around him.

And sometimes I feel like Don Draper. When I have nowhere to be and time to see my thoughts, they seem like stratus clouds: vague, incomplete, flat, persistently hovering but empty. I actually don't know much about the weather, so I googled "Stratus clouds" after I typed that, and here is the definition from "Web Weather for Kids":

"Stratus clouds are uniform grayish clouds that often cover the entire sky. They resemble fog that does not reach the ground. Usually no precipitation falls from stratus clouds, but sometimes they may drizzle. When a thick fog "lifts," the resulting clouds are low stratus."
  
What a fucking metaphor. Everything about that definition is what I feel in my chest tonight. And as a yogi, I know that I could practice releasing my attachment to this complex sadness, look for neutral ground that is neither happy nor sad, but at peace. Or I could think back to my midwestern Catholic upbringing, where idle hands make the devil's work, so of course I am depressed by my inactivity, because nobody should rightly be able to sit with himself for longer than a minute. Or as a singer, I could make a joyful noise and express myself until I feel better. But I wanted to write. Because I had to reinforce the idea within me that I am an artist, and that whatever I'm feeling is somehow the making of literary beauty.

Once I figure out what it is that I had to say. Maybe I have said it now.

Biding My Time

I rode the train from Harvard Square to Jamaica Plain last night. Saturday night, alone, headed home. I knew there was nobody waiting for me, and I was coming from nobody, but for the next 45 minutes, I would be part of a small community, united in public transit. I chatted with a friendly acquaintance in the station, engaged in an quick flirtation between stops, and bobbed my head to a street performer's amplified harmonica.

I have lately spent many nights in this way, free from rehearsals and social obligations, and not always by choice. There is a new loneliness in my life as a single woman. Unlike the loneliness that creeps into relationships, this feeling bears a certain humility, or humiliation - I'm not yet sure which. I see my own judgment in peoples' eyes, asking me who is absent from my side and why I haven't got plans on a Saturday night.

I'm not indignant alone; I'm quiet and simple, and sometimes I feel shame. And although I identify as a third grader waiting in vain for a team captain to call me to play - left out and publicly dismissed, I know that I am more like a transfer student with nowhere to sit at lunch, mostly unnoticed and privately alienated, sad that the others don't know my light, sad that it has to be wasted between me and my lunch.

Yet I find myself unable to open up. I can't abide the tiny injustice of being misunderstood, mistreated, missed. For now, this feels right - anonymity and a table for one.

No. 1

He's wearing a navy baseball cap low over his face, a white Hanes tee beneath his black zip-up hoodie, light stone wash jeans, and black asics. I can hardly see his face because he hunches over a crossword in a puzzler book. He lifts his heel to secure the book when he writes an answer. He puts it back down when he thinks.

(This is the first installment of the PNP series.)

Boys and Girls

A Saturday night on public transportation is like a holding room for the club. I watched a group of four guys and a group of four girls in the station. The girls wore heels and bite-sized dresses, over which they folded their curls and arms to keep from freezing. One girl kept her right arm outstretched to find a better angle for her unceasing attempts at self-portraits of the group. The boys wore polos and passed around an Aquafina bottle filled with orange liquid. The girls eventually gave up on her arm-span and had one of the boys take the picture. It seemed that they were perfect together.

Only it turned out that they weren't together. Once we sat on the train, I saw that they were total strangers, except of course that their social lives had molded them to fit very well together. The conversation was dull and disconnected, and representatives of each group pretended to get to know the other while cracking camouflaged inside jokes to their counterparts.

"You guys all got nice shoes," said the boys.
"Thanks," said the girls. "Where are you guys going?"
"Where are you guys going?" Three boys mysteriously chuckled. Another round of orange liquid.
"We asked you first." The girls cackle.

It's like tennis, but funnier.

As I left South Station, I had a hard time discerning all the signs for the different train and bus lines. What I wanted was the exit, but I ended up activating an alarm trying to go backwards through the turnstile just in time for the boys to notice.

"Woah, wrong way!" said the loud one.
"Yeah, how embarrassing."
"You are the biggest loser - goodbye," he said, in a drunk and slightly boggled reality-TV reference. I decided not to engage. We all stepped onto the gargantuan escalator. Near the top, the loud boy had a sudden change of heart.
"I'm sorry," he said to me, feigning remorse. "I didn't mean to call you a loser. You're not the biggest loser." This was all part of the boys and girls game. His role was to throw insults at me through a charming smile until I simply couldn't resist any longer. But I don't like to play that game.
"No, I know," I replied.
"Oooh, so... Wait, are you saying I'm the biggest loser?"
"No." I replied, and our paths diverged toward our respective Saturday nights.

Wisdom from the Street

While this advice wasn't given directly to me, it is too good not to post. A homeless man told my friend Dahlia this last week at a train station:

"That train's not gonna come when you want it to, but it'll be right on time."

You're Too Kind

Life Alive

My little sister and I ate in the basement of a crunchy hippie restaurant last month. There was a woman eying us from across the room. Emily thought she was a psychic, and judging by her hanging shawls and stack of cards, I thought so too. She wore a headpiece with draping gold discs, something between a crown and a hat, like an African princess. It was a distracting thing to have in one's peripheral vision, and eventually I decided to ask her what she was about.

"Goddess card readings," she answered. "It's really fun - we just see what card you draw and talk about what it might mean for your life. I've been doing this for many years, and everyone gets just the right card." With two sisters in the middle of life crises, she had hit the jackpot.

She handed us the stack of cards. We both drew from the middle of the deck.
Emily uncovered Aphrodite, the goddess of Love.
For me, Oshun, goddess of Sensuality.
Two sisters, sixty possibilities, and this is what we get.
"Amazing that two sisters should draw this pair!" she remarked. "So... tell me what you think it means."

We were both silent. We didn't care what we thought; we wanted her to tell us. - Everything. I would have let her make all of my big decisions right then and there. But instead, she talked of self-love and hot baths and fresh-cut flowers. But the reading still produced my answers. It just happened to be that I already knew them.

Origami

I watched a girl about my age take a piece of patterned red paper out of her bag. It was the same size as a gum wrapper, but much denser. She began folding it, in half one way, then another, flipping and turning it in a entrancing rhythm of fold, crease, fold, crease. She knew the pattern well, so much that her field of attention picked up my staring.

"What are you making?" I asked, caught.
"A crane. If you make a thousand, you get a wish."
"Oh yeah, I think I've heard of that! How many do you have?"
"I think four hundred now."
"Have you been going a while?"
"About five months," she said, as she shaped the beak of the paper creature. "Do you want this one?"

Obviously I did. I thanked her profusely and examined it before tucking it in the pocket of my raincoat. It's beautiful, with the paper's bold colors intertwining along its creases, which are impeccable despite the nonchalance of the maker. I wondered about her 1000-crane wish as she walked up the stairs, her head tilted slightly to the left.

Profiles of Normal People in the Present Tense Explained

It occurred to me that many of the people I feature on my blog are eccentric. While eccentricity will always be the key to my heart, I'd like to share some accounts of people who are not so bold - people who blend in. This series will be called Profiles of Normal People in the Present Tense. Stay tuned!

Civil Disobedience

Freaky Friday

People hate cockroaches because they are creepy and scuttle around at the speed of light. But the last time I saw one, I had a thought: What if that is simply their response to seeing humans, which is the only time we see them? And if that's the case, what must they think of us?

"Gross! Humans! They scream and point and hop in place!"

Gina

"Good morning," she said, stopping me at the door to an empty 6am Au Bon Pain.
"Morning," I replied.
"Spare some change on the way out?"
"Maybe," I replied. "Oh no, I don't have any cash. I have to pay with my debit card."
"Would you buy me a cup of coffee in there?" How logical. Of course, my mind searched first for how that could possibly inconvenience me, but I couldn't come up with anything.
"Sure," I said. I stopped myself on the other side of the door. "What size?"
"Just a small," she said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."

I watched her as I slopped oatmeal into a paper cup. She looked like an unlikely candidate to be begging for breakfast. She had a nice leather jacket, floral collared shirt, tasteful makeup on her face. But there was something in her eyes that said she hadn't just forgotten her wallet.

"Do you want anything to eat?"
"Yes," she said, moving toward the pastries.
She set her cinnamon bun on the counter next to my oatmeal.
"We're together," I said. I watched the man swipe my card and thought of the extra five imaginary dollars for Gina. Spare change. Not as grand a gesture as a five dollar bill - way easier. But sad to be so near someone and her broken eyes.
"May God bless you a thousand times over, forever and ever, Amen."
"Thank you," I said.  She ate in the front window seat.
"You have a blessed weekend now, you hear?"
"You too. Bye Gina." 

Story Time

Last week there was a stroller crowding the middle of the train during rush hour. Seated in front of the stroller was a young mother with her little daughter on her lap. The toddler sucked her thumb and wore a fuzzy brown jacket that had earned her the nickname "Bear." The train was loaded with people, but all were silent except the mom, who read aloud to her bear in sing-song tones. I was lulled by the stillness of the train and the smooth rhythm of the story. The book was called "Little Bear," obviously a favorite. I tried not to stare, but as I averted my gaze, I realized that others were struggling with the same thing. Many people had their eyes glued to the page of the book, watching the pictures as the story went by. 

Miscellaneous Hat Day

Waiting for a train, an old man opened a USPS flat rate envelope over his head. He spread it open, looked inside, and calmly reached the crown of his head between the folds. He was still wearing it when my train left. A few seats down from where I sat, I saw another white-haired man in a shower cap.

Did I miss the memo on this?

Down the Rabbit Hole

My friend Katie and I stumbled upon a traveling circus in the middle of Downtown Crossing. A passerby saw us eyeing the box office and handed us a pair of tickets.

"These'll getcha in if you wanna see! Intermission will be over in about two minutes."

And just like that, we were at the circus. It was pitch black inside - the better to sell kid-friendly glow sticks. Strobing neon spotlights illuminated the packed stadium and its bouquets of cotton candy. It's astonishing sometimes how much life is like Alice in Wonderland.

"You're late!" said the ticket man.
"We're very late!" said Katie.

Three pony-riding goats, an amazing balancing man, and a geriatric clown later, we headed back out the main gate.

"The show's not over yet, ladies."
It never is, I thought.

Death Wish

Wednesday was an incredible day. The sun shone warmly through the cold spring, and I decided to wait outside while my laundry tumbled. I lay down on a hilltop park bench to feel the heat on my face, chatting to my mom on the phone, with nowhere to be and nothing to do.

And then I heard screaming in the square below. Repetitive, rhythmic words, like a mantra. I couldn't make them out, so I sat up and went to peer over the side of the hill. A man stood in the middle of the traffic rotary, under the same perfect sun, screeching, crying out, "Run me over! Run me over! Run me over! Run me over!"

First Impressions

A guy across from me was sketching people on the train. He may have thought he was undercover, but his motives were obvious. I wondered how the portraits looked as I watched his eyes shift between my neighbors and the squiggly strokes of his pencil. I checked in periodically to see who he was drawing, but the angle of his Moleskine kept the pages out of sight. To be honest, I wanted to see myself in there - a stranger's projection of me. But in my curiosity, I couldn't be still, and quickdraw doesn't work well on a moving target.

She Got Game

My sister, Mom, and I got in the habit of walking to and from dinner while we were in Florida. One night we walked by a boy playing basketball in the street. He was still shooting around when we passed again four hours later. Emily and Mom were both on their cell phones as we approached him, so no one seemed to mind that I ran ahead to play ball.

He was elated to finally have an opponent, even if it was a person in a dress. He pulled all his left-right-fakey moves, but I am very serious about boxing out, and I put up a good fight. My family hovered at the end of the street while we chased each other around, neither of us making any shots. We chatted while we played.

"Do your siblings like basketball?" I asked.
"I don't know, kinda. My brother's at a party tonight," he answered.
"Okay. Well I'm pretty sure basketball is more fun than that."
"Yeah probably," he said as I scored my second point. It was 2-2 in a game to 3. "Are you sure you're not, like, a secret basketball wizard?" He may or may not have said that part. I can't be totally sure.

"So do you like living on the beach?" I asked, studying the large beach house behind us.
"Eh, it's a rental. My dad's back in Miami, but my mom moved us here after the divorce," he said.
"Not a bad place to be," I replied as he scored the winning point.
"Nah, not bad. So how long you guys in town?"
"Just until Monday morning," I said.
"Well, maybe I'll see you back out here," he suggested.
"Yeah, maybe," I replied, falling back into step with my family.

Love Dollar

This week at work, a girl handed me a one dollar bill with writing all over it and then went into class. Around the border, the dollar says:

"You are always in my heart! My little puppy. I love you so much! Love, little McVeggie! I'll miss you! I'll think about you this weekend!"

On the back:

"Love makes the world go round. Love sweet love! Love is all we need!"

Some parts of the dollar were also altered, so that it read, "IN (LOVE) WE TRUST" and (You're my #)1.

I thought about Where's George dollars and how money moves all over, all the time. On her way out of class, I asked the girl where she'd gotten the dollar.

"The truth?" she asked.
"Sure," I answered.
"I went through old shoe boxes today. It was leftover from an old relationship, and I was like, 'Well, it's' a dollar,' so I brought it here..."
"... to let go - to pass it on," I offered.
"Exactly," she said.

I haven't spent it yet, but look for Puppy and McVeggie coming soon to a cash register near you.