Agent Kid

I don't worry too much about what my son wears as long as his appearance is neat. I honestly wouldn't be thrilled if he went full blown "Princess Boy" on me but his preference of red clothes over blue is not an issue (As long as there's no obvious gang affliation at least).

We were talking about the condition his clothes recently, namely about the his wanton destruction of property. At least 6 pairs of jean had been ripped over the course of a school year. They all bore identical holes across the right knee. His signature, if you will. One or two rippped jeans I could understand, but as I piled them up on the floor, I started fuming. Clearly, whatever he was doing had to stop. I refused to buy replacements if they were all going to meet similar fates.

So, never one to avoid confrontation, yes even with a six year old, I initiated the following exchange.

"If you don't stop putting holes in your pants, I'm not buying you any more."
"It's too cold for this! Do you wanna wear the same pants every day?"

"I dunno." He shrugged, bouncing on one foot to the other.

"Do you have to use the bathroom?" I demanded.

He thought about it then bounced off, this time one foot in front of the other. But I wasn't finished with the subject.

"All I know is you are gonna have to wear the same pants all the time if you keep ripping them. It's too cold for clothes with holes."

"O-Kay. I just don't wanna wear the same shirt every day. Isaac wears the same yellow shirt and blue pants every day and I don't know why."

"Who is Isaac?"

"You saw Isaac. He sits at my table."

"Oh, is he the Asian kid?" I asked.

"No Mommy. He isn't an agent kid. He's only a little boy. Little boys can't be agents."

"Not AGENT. I said ASIAN."

"Asian? I don't know what that means. Why would you call him Asian?"

"Umm. I don't know. He looks Asian."

"Well, I don't know anything about that. It's weird that he wears the same thing everyday. Maybe you are right Mommy. Maybe he is an agent. I didn't think of that."

I thought about the funny exchange. Especially funny considering the source. It came from the child who would pointedly tell you that the crayon you referred to as blue is in fact "blue-violet". I had been corrected on more than a few occasions, and made it a point to read the crayon before opening my mouth. I felt foolish for even bringing it up, the fact that Isaac is an agent was not at all relevant to the conversation.

The Message

Handsome and well dressed, his smile goes beyond ear to ear and approaches infinity. We met when I was 14 and he was 22. I received an early morning call from my mother informing me that he requested my presence at his 40th birthday celebration. Of course I would go.

I haven't seen him in years which is purely my fault. While inviting a friend to the party, I gave her a short, obligatory bio. I never remember the details of his condition. It make me uncomfortable to mention that my friend is wheel chair bound, and a paraplegic. It paints a unfairly grim picture and makes me feel as though I'm compartmentalizing him. He's not my handicapped friend. He's simply my friend. But since his condition makes it difficult for him to communicate, I do the obligatory bio.

Much grander than I expected, the party was a sit down dinner affair. Ignoring my apology for my jeans and sweater, Grace, the mother of the birthday boy, hugs and thanks me for coming. Seated at a table with familiar faces, I am embarrassed at how little time I have taken to keep in touch with certain people. True, I seldom do things I don't wanna do, but that is the mantra of the obstinate child I used to be and not of the woman I am becoming.

Grace sings a gospel song at the request of Tyrone (the birthday boy)- And no, I don't know it. My irreverence has loomed out of control. I keenly felt the spectre of my faith scrutinizing me as I listened.

"Don't pay me any mind little miss. I'm not here for the likes of you." It remarks primly.

But still, I am touched. I'm tortured, not heartless. *clears throat* Anyway. Her love for her son is evident. The entire room is full of love for Tyrone, the positive energy is dense and palpable. It seems to fill him up, leaving no empty spaces for irreverence.

The singing continues and at some point my father (stepfather) vanishes. His early departure surprises no one. After another song Grace comes over to our table and passes a cellphone around, displaying a text message for us to read.

"If you sing one more damn song, I'm gonna drive into a goddamn wall."

This message is from my father, the jerk and the cynic. We all laughed hysterically, Grace laughing the loudest. If anything his audacity heightened the spell that we were all under. That's the thing about faith.

Paper hearts/ Happy people

Paper hearts don't bleed but they do break easily. I don't know what possessed me to write this sentence. But what possesses me to do anything I do? My actions lately... Lately, I have been dancing on the top of a plateau.

Occasionally, I peek over the edges, don't like what I see, then step back and take a look around. I'm stumped. There seems to be no way to move vertically. Seemingly, I can move forward but eventually something's gotta give. I'm back at the edge again. Irritated by this wry conundrum, I wonder what's the point in even moving.

If I think hard enough, I know one person who's overtly happy with the current state of her life. She will remain unnamed. I wouldn't want her to be swamped with unsolicited inquires. I would bug her myself for the answer but I know that her "joy" is internal. The rest of us, we have to find our own. Unless we crack her open like a pinata and steal it but that's a bit extreme. Put down those sticks you savages! It wouldn't work anyway.

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." (Leo Tolstoy)

I don't necessarily endorse the first half of this statement. The second half is what I'm really after but even this portion requires further distillation. Every unhappy person is unhappy in his or her own way. This reduction is no brilliant feat but it is interesting how this works in practice.

• My discontent stems mostly from my lackluster career. (mostly)


• My friend with the fancy high paying job tells me that even though I'm unmarried, I should feel lucky that at least I have a child.


• Another friend who didn't finish school tells me that I should be happy because of my education.


• I tell my married friend who is also struggling with her career that she is lucky to have a loving husband and a beautiful home.


• Then I tell my single friend she should be happy that she has a rewarding career (and great boobs).


• My friend struggling to lose weight would tell all of us skinny bitches to shut the hell up.

And back and forth the circle of malaise continues with each one graciously counting the blessings of others, while rudely snubbing her own. Malaise is fast becoming the new angst. Granted, it's a less confrontational, panicky condition than angst but it still has many of the same pimply, uncomfortable existential undertones. I'm hoping that we will all grow out of it.

Seems simplistic but unless we figure out a way to switch lives, bodies and circumstances, then it's all I've got. Perhaps if I had a bigger budget I could make every one of you a personalized "It's a Wonderful Life" montage, so you could see how special you all are but fat chance. I can barely format this blog. It isn't much but I like the idea of fooling around with the prospect of happy people. It's better than fumbling around with the vagaries of paper hearts.

From now on

Allegedly, I drove through a few yellow lights as they were turning red. Don't jump to conclusions, I'm not a complete scofflaw. I would never intentionally speed through a red light. But yellow lights are a gamble and sometimes you lose.

The obvious consequence of losing is the associated fines. But is the extra aggravation, albeit free, necessary? I needed the citation numbers in order to pay the fines. I didn't have the citations, so I called for assistance and reached "Phyllis", an amalgamation of a dismissive government employee, and a prim Sunday school teacher, all judgment and dry manners.

The last thing I needed was Phyllys' lecture. Numerous notices were sent out regarding the violations. So what? I didn't have them. Moreover, if I cared about it eighteen months ago, I wouldn't have waited until today to call. Quite honestly, I still didn't care but I was compelled to pay in order to renew my tags.

I wanted to give Phyl a little lecture of my own. It would go something like this:

"Look here Phyl, ExX-CUSE me if I don't come to a screeching halt on yellow. Sorry if I tried to shave a few minutes off of my two hour commute by trying to make a yellow light or two. I ain't having a good week, month, or to be honest, a good freaking year. So wrap up the soliloquy, and give me the damn citation numbers." ( I hope my use of a familiar diminutive, and bad grammar indicates that I mean business).

I think I know how to manage my life (just trust me on this point) and regardless of my circumstances, paying extortionate fines is NEVER going to be a priority. On the bright side, I learned an important driving lesson. I am a financially conscientious woman, so no more casually driving through yellow lights. From now on, I will be driving through yellow lights much faster.

Gone

The problem with fireworks is that eventually they fizzle and fade. Washington is a small city, so it isn't surprising to run into the same strangers, and bump into the occasional tangential friends. I saw a stranger last night that used to be quite dear to me. It was a decade ago, pre-law school, pre-motherhood, pre-everything that's important to me now. I adored him. Last night there were no fireworks, which is good because he's now a married man and a father, and not the boy who had scratched my heart. It was supposed to be a minor wound, but it had taken years to heal. Maybe because I kept picking at the scab, finding excuses to make it bleed.

Though our embrace had been warm and genuine, the experience had been anti-climatic. I no longer thought of him, but for some reason I had thought of him recently. Randomly, I had a vision of a night, years ago, that I spent in his company. As usual, his behaviour had frustrated and confused me. Back then, he had been possessive yet unavailable. He owned me, enjoyed the power, but offered no reciprocity.

Last night, things were different. He no longer had a claim on me. He teased me about the absence of a wedding ring on my finger: "Come on man, what you waiting on?"

Eight years ago, he would not have asked me this question because we both knew that the answer would have been : "Come on man, I'm waiting on you."

We parted with a hug and the contact left me empty. Don't get me wrong, I am happy for him. More importantly, I am happy that there was no ambiguity. We no longer have a conflict as I could no longer offer adoration. Gone was the tension that had created the magical tendrils of fireworks.

I sipped my drink and thought about the burden of his former rejection and the inexplicable heaviness of it's absence. His behavior had been appropriate and respectful, but it bothered me that he still seemed physically attracted to me. Why had that aspect endured, while the others had faded?

Then I met a likable stranger who offered to buy me ice cream. I accepted. Admittedly, I am easily distracted. Furthermore, crushes come and go but I will always love ice cream.

What you see

I submitted the exactingly short story below to a website called Six Sentence Story. Turn six sentences into a story... My contribution is called "Painting Moments".

"Even pain can be pretty if applied properly with smooth, efficient strokes. Sitting on a magenta towel to protect the floor from possible stains, I wondered why I still cared about maintaining order, when it was obvious that my attempts were futile. The weight of the week's rejections had buoyed slightly as I glimpsed the glint of the small bottle at the bottom of my densely packed closet. Once again, I hadn't gotten the job, and once again, the man was ignoring me. My obligatory morning meditation had revealed nothing worthwhile, so I decided to act quickly before my mind changed. The first stroke brought crisp glossy red relief, and with eager hands, I painted my way from that less than perfect moment."

Flash fiction seemed to suit my impulsive nature. I desperately needed to write and it needed to be done quickly. So it was done. The response to my entry was equally swift. At first it was complimentary (I'll spare you the details).

Then someone commented:

"Oooo. I never understood cutting. I hope this is fiction."

Followed by:

"I share your disappointments, as I share them. Mostly, I hope your are Ok."

Then:

"I know two young ladies who did this. No matter how much comfort I gave them, they only concentrated on how they perceived the world."

My response:

"... I [am] astonished to see that I had been diagnosed a cutter. Perhaps it's my fault. I wanted to convey a sense of discontent and borderline dysfunction. But although the blood imagery was intentional it was not at all literal. I thought it was socially acceptable to bleed through writing."

The lady doth protest too much. I didn't owe any of these people an apology or explanation for writing a story about nail polish. Ironically, I had editted the story so that it would be obvious that I was talking about red nail polish. The original version was more ambiguously suggestive of cutting. Editting was a waste of time since the original tone remained. Somehow I thought I could sneak it in without anyone noticing. It was immensely satisfying to paint the picture but not at the cost of triggering a damn intervention. I just needed to let some things out with a few strokes.

Okay, I know that sometimes I creep some people out. My dark place shines brightly within me. I wander there often but it isn't on purpose. For me, it's peaceful there, dimly lit and sobering like a graveyard. I don't know how to be any other way and editting doesn't work. You see what you see. So let me bleed ( figuratively at least). If it bothers you, look away.

Flashy

In Reverie

Lost in a trance, isolated moments hold me together. I write in fragments, obscuring subjects, emphasizing actions, resenting adjectives and articles too. “Bird flew home.” Don’t care if you know the color, size, texture, variety. Just know it flew on its own volition. That’s the only thing that seems true.

Fifteen Minutes

Strolling, felt Jasmine, soft and brightly lit. Not to be confused with the muffled waves of lavender lurking hours behind it. It was too early for a celestial lavender mood. Steps preceding glances, the movement of strangers parting. No one is immune to the energy of the mid-day sun, straining to be noticed in the fragrant day.

Eventually

I’ll tear it off eventually. Although it is mine, I feel no allegiance to it; I honor no misplaced alliances. Technically, it’s the outsider not a part of me. On it's own, it changes, grows thicker, thinner. Conspicuously on the outside, it is merely a casing for a mangled sausage of blood and bones. The glossy cover on a poorly organized book of stories, nothing about it intimates the bizarre anthology within.