Tag Archives: Self-Help

January 1: Today is Not Day One

Average height. Average weight. Not pretty, not ugly. Cute sometimes, if I make the effort. Mid-thirties, approaching mid-life, with medium brown hair of medium length, I wear mostly black and nothing bright, ever. I live in a 1950s three-bedroom, two-bath rambler in the suburbs. And that’s me. I’m pretty … ordinary. My name is Katie, for goodness’ sake. So why does the month of January so reliably inspire me to undertake goals that even an extraordinary person would find challenging?

I’ll never know.

And yet, that’s what I do. I love a challenge, especially love a claw-sinking self-improvement effort. So, because of this quality and because of the date on the calendar, I have decided to do an experiment. The experiment will have two parts, with the first part being this: Someday—maybe even someday soon—I will attempt to pray without ceasing. 

Allow me to explain. 

In the Holy Bible—I Thessalonians, to be more precise—there is a passage written by Paul the Apostle imploring early believers to “pray without ceasing,” and since the time that it was written (and possibly before that time as well) a few people have actually taken this advice seriously. One of these people was a seventeenth-century Catholic monk named Brother Lawrence.

Brother Lawrence was an unusually spiritual person and an unusually happy one—and also a pretty ordinary one as well. He worked as a cook at the monastery where he lived, the Discalced Carmelite Prior in Paris. Sometime during his time there, he decided to teach himself how to pray continually throughout the day—and as it turned out, he was quite successful. The journal he kept about his experience later became a popular book called The Practice of the Presence of God. 

The first time I read this book I was in college (Bible College, no less). Because I have since a young age had a pretty optimistic view of my own capabilities, as I read it I vowed to myself that one day, I would do what he did. I held this idea somewhere in the back of my mind ever since, only abandoning it temporarily while on a break from spirituality a few years back.

Which brings me to today. As I said before, today is January first, and since I’m looking for a good goal for the year as well as a good idea for a book, it seems like a great year to begin. 

Of course, there is one little problem with this idea, namely: I don’t believe in all the Bible’s ideas anymore; I am no longer a Christian. However, I don’t think this is much of a problem. I may not believe in Christianity, but I can still follow the Bible when I like what it has to say. And I like the idea of praying without ceasing. It has a certain extremist appeal. It is enough of a challenge to make it worth writing about but more than that, the outcome could just be amazing. If I am successful, I would be nearly guaranteed to make better decisions and live a better life—after all, I’d be receiving my instructions straight from God.

And that would just be awesome.

***

And so, this year I’m going to do what Brother Lawrence did. I’m going to figure out how to pray without ceasing, to live in a state in which every action I take, every word I speak and every thought I think comes from the Source inside myself far beyond my conscious mind. I am going to communicate with the Divine, and not just occasionally—I’m going to do it all day long.

Sound ambitious? It does to me. But I don’t think it’s out of reach—not for me and not for anyone else, either. Because after all, all I’m really talking about here is doing something that should come very naturally to us humans. It goes under various names: “listening to your intuition,” “being your own person” and “following your heart,” to name a few. Most people use at least one of these terms to describe something similar to what I plan to do. The difference is that because I believe that we humans are all a part of God, I think listening to myself (my deep down truest self, that is) is one way to listen to God, too.

***

So, that is what I plan to do. Now the question becomes: Why did I wait so long to begin? 

Well, there are several answers to that question. One is that until now, I never felt inspired to. And though the importance of this cannot be understated, it goes hand-in-hand with the second answer to the question, the one that will likely become more apparent as this experiment proceeds, but which simply stated is this: I just never had the guts. 

And, truth be told, I still don’t. Which is why as of today, I have not yet decided when this experiment will actually begin. See, I am ready to think about following my intuition. I’m ready to observe my inner dialogue on the subject, and to ponder the matter in depth. I’m even ready, right now, to make the decision that at some point this year, I will actually carry out this plan. 

But unfortunately, I’m not yet ready to begin. 

And actually, I’m kind of okay with that. In my experience, when considering a major change like this trying to force things is usually not only unproductive, but actually counterproductive. Thinking about it, though—considering it, mulling it over, picturing what it would be like—can be just the ticket—just the thing that helps you to notice when the right time does at long last arrive.

And so, today is the first day of my journal on this subject, but today is not day one.

***

All right, then. So much for the first part of my experiment for the year. The second part of the experiment is just as difficult and just as ambitious as the first, and it is this: I am going to find a few good friends. 

See, there’s something I must admit, a bit ashamedly: I have precious few friends. I mean, I see people. We have conversations. But in my life there is no one I can just call on a whim except one, and she lives pretty far away. Not so far that I never see her—but far enough that it’s a two-night, three-day adventure when I do.

And that’s unfortunate. Because as we all know, there’s a world of difference between a friend—someone you talk to when it’s convenient to do so—and a close friend, someone you seek out. A close friend is someone you can call when you’re bored or angry or lonely or upset, or for no reason at all. Someone you can go have coffee with at her house, just for half an hour between errands. Someone you can watch TV with while you’re wearing pajamas. Not someone who schedules you out several weeks in advance as an activity to work in between all their other responsibilities, but someone who is often—not always, maybe, but often—just there. 

When we were in high school and college, our friends were all like that. Friendship wasn’t on the back burner, something to enjoy only if you had time; it was an accepted, necessary part of your life. If you weren’t hanging out with people and doing something fun on a Friday or Saturday night, you felt bad about it. You felt like a loser. Your friends—assuming you had some—automatically assumed those would be the evenings and nights you’d spend together. 

And the rest of the week they were there, too. You ate your meals with them in the cafeteria. You saw them in class, or between classes at the library where you all went to study together. You did something we as adults have all but given up on except with our immediate family: you hung out. 

Now things are different. In my case—as in the case of many other people—my immediate family just isn’t big enough to make for a 100 percent satisfying “hanging out” kind of experience—right now, it’s just me, the baby, and my husband, and as much as I love these two other beautiful people, they will never be able to fulfill my need for companionship entirely. 

And just in case you’re wondering, yes, I do know this from years of experience trying. At first it was just my husband Jack and I, and for quite a while, that actually was almost enough. I had my writing and my hobbies and my husband and even though I wanted more friends, I allowed myself to put off looking for them to pursue other things instead. 

But then the baby was born. And no longer did I have all the time I wanted for doing my own stuff—building my business, reading endless books, writing whenever I felt inspired and for hours and hours on end. No—for the first time in a long time, I had a schedule—a strict one, and one that wasn’t set by me. I had to wake up at a certain time every day, no matter how tired I was, and change diapers and wash faces and put my own projects on hold until naptime. I was working harder than I’d ever worked in my life, and at the same time the days were longer than they’d ever been, and so much harder to fill. 

See, before the baby, I could do anything I wanted with my time, whereas with him I had to do only certain things that he could do, too. The list was short, and included the following: shopping (for me, just grocery shopping since I avoid most other kinds), car rides (yes, just car rides), walks (in those first months of the baby’s life I would often walk for two or three hours at a time), and, finally, social stuff. And as much as I loved walking and car rides, it was the social time I needed the most. 

And I still do. Though the baby is older now, I still can’t get much reading or writing done with him around, and playing at home gets pretty old after a while. And so, our time together is much better spent out and about, doing something we both enjoy. 

And at the top of that list, of course, is seeing friends.

And so, my plan this year is to do everything in my power to locate and develop friendships with as many women as possible. I will name and list them in this journal along with all my efforts to attract them and keep them around. For anonymity’s sake, I’ll refer to the people on this list by numbers, not by their names (besides, it’s sillier that way, and I think if there’s ever a time to be silly, it’s when you’re shopping for new friends). I really don’t know if I will be successful but I do know this: if I’m not, it won’t be for lack of trying. 

***

And so, I’ve decided: this is the year I am going to get friends. It is also the year I’m going to learn to pray without ceasing. 

And even though the terminology I normally use these days is different, I still do like the phrase “pray without ceasing.” Not too corny, not too New-Agey sounding. A little old-fashioned. A little poetic. A little reminiscent, too, of what I used to be. 

It also, I think, makes the point. Because though the word “prayer” can mean many things, it’s the “without ceasing” part that matters—at least to me right now. After all, I can pray the regular way anytime. I can learn to meditate. I can teach myself how to make all my most important decisions with the help of God, and actually I’ve been doing most of these things for years. What I haven’t been able to do is to walk in that inspired place all day long. I haven’t been able or willing to give control of my whole life to God, even my very thoughts. 

Are you beginning to see why the prospect of doing this is so frightening?

And yet, I’m ready. I’m ready to live in continuous awareness, even during the smallest and (arguably) least important moments of life. 

I’m ready to pray without ceasing—just as soon as the time seems right. 

***

January 7: My Mind Hurts

The other day, I said something that was kinda stupid. It was to a friend of mine—a new friend, one that is still in that tender “will-I-stay-or-will-I-go” phase (I’ll call her Friend Number One). It wasn’t an insult, exactly—it was just something that upon reflection seemed a bit insensitive. 

I told her she needed to calm down. 

She was graceful about it, of course. And she did in fact calm down a little, even. But really, does anyone ever like being told to calm down, to have a very understandable human emotion pointed out to them in such an embarrassing, blunt manner?

I doubt it. 

Anyway, the point is after that, nothing happened. There was no fallout. There was no argument. Everything was normal and fine. And yet, ever since then (and this was over a week ago, mind you) I have been unable to forgive myself for what I said. I have been replaying the conversation over and over in my mind, as if doing so could change anything—and as if it mattered that much at all. 

In short: I am acting crazy. 

And this isn’t the only time this has happened. I’d even say if I really thought about it there haven’t been all that many stretches of time in my life when I haven’t tortured myself similarly on an almost daily basis. As Eckhart Tolle would say: This is normal. It is also insane. 

And so, truth be told, the real reason for this experiment is not that it’s something I’ve always wanted to do or that I just think it’d be cool. The real reason I’m doing it is that my mind hurts. 

It hurts really, really bad.

***

Yesterday I started re-reading a book by one of my favorite authors. It was A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut, and in the prologue (an awesome piece of writing in its own right) Vonnegut quotes his uncle Alex who, in certain happy moments during his life, as while eating a sandwich by a lake or some such thing, was fond of saying the following: “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice I don’t know what is,’” Vonnegut writes.

And if that isn’t a deep thought—I don’t know what is.

So far in my life, I have found a lot of happiness. I have worked through some tough things—a good deal of my depression and painful shyness, to name two—and figured out some good things—how to be in a healthy romantic relationship, to name one. These things took a lot of work and because of that work I now feel better than I ever have before. But what Vonnegut is talking about in this passage is not merely feeling good. 

He’s talking, I think, about contentment.

Contentment is more than having a good life and appreciating what you have. There’s something else to it as well, something that’s a little harder to put your finger on. Contentment, as I see it, is peace. It’s an inner calm that tells you that everything really is okay.

And that’s what this experiment is about. It’s about being so in touch with God that worry and other bad feelings—the so-called “mind clutter” that steals away many otherwise happy moments—goes away. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for. At least for some of the time. I know this because a few times in my life, I’ve glimpsed it. Then I’ve let it slip away.

I’m definitely in that slip-away territory now. Lately, my level of spiritual inspiration—that high you get on a long walk at night, for example—have been pretty lacking. My thoughts, as I said, have been unpleasant to live with, even more so for the fact that they make no sense. 

I have all the money I need, yet I’m worrying constantly about bills. I have all the time I need, yet I’m daily afraid of not getting enough done. 

I worry about my husband. I worry about our baby. I worry about my weight and my hair and my friendships and the stupid comment I made the other day that has probably already been forgotten. 

I wake up worrying, and I’m worried about my worrying, and I’m worried about whether giving it up will actually do more harm than good. Won’t it take away my sense of purpose in life? How will I get anything done?

And yet, as with all of our addictions, we know we actually would be better off without them. We can’t quite imagine a life without drugs or alcohol or overeating or worry, but somehow we still believe it is possible. And so, we make our decision. We decide to rid ourselves of our bad habits, to swear off them entirely this time, come what may. 

After that we fail. Then we fail again.

We do this several more times, then several more, until we either die or are successful. If we die, we go to Heaven or somewhere like that and realize it didn’t really matter anyway. If we are successful we write a book about it. 

This is not one of those books. This is a journal, not a success story. Truth is, I’m not a success. I’m struggling. I’ll probably continue to struggle even if I find some degree of peace and divine connectedness this year. Of course, I hope that I’m wrong and that this experiment will wipe away all my mind clutter and I will be the next ordinary person to transcend it all, like Eckhart Tolle. But as this is unlikely, I set my sights squarely on the goal of making a dent in those negative thoughts, and to at times experience the feeling of deep-seated contentment I described. Anyway, no harm will come from my trying, right? Even if I am just an ordinary person.

If there’s one thing I believe in without reservation, it’s trying.  

***

February 6: Such is Life

Today is the thirty-seventh day of the year, and I still haven’t decided when to begin my New Years’ resolution. I feel the same way about this goal that I did back on January first, namely: I’m still afraid to commit.

Now, you should know that normally I’m not averse to commitment—not even close. I jump into long-term relationships and major life decisions—even parenthood—with relative ease, trusting my instincts to steer me right. But what I’m talking about here isn’t a commitment to a relationship, or to a job. It’s a commitment to allowing someone or something else to, if they see fit, take over my entire life. It is a commitment to giving up control, and not only that, but to put forth what right now seems like a great deal of effort to do so. It’s a commitment to changing my entire life, my entire way of thinking. 

Nothing could be more total than that.

But losing control of my decisions isn’t the only thing I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of changing my personality too much. I’m afraid, a little, of coming across to others as overly spiritual—a fanatic or a freak. And lastly, I’m afraid of failure.

Yup, that’s right—I’m afraid it will work, and I’m afraid it won’t—both at the very same time.  

Such is life. And such is the way we keep ourselves from growth.

Now, as to the latter fear—the fear of failure—most of me highly doubts it will come to pass. Sure, I won’t always perceive the direction I seek moment-by-moment, but I believe that I am actually able to hear God when I listen. Sometimes the voice guides me on small matters—things like what to say to someone at a sensitive moment or when is the best time to schedule coffee with a friend. But the voice has guided me on big things as well—things like where to apply for a job, and whether or not the person I was dating was right for me. Over the past twenty years, that still small voice has helped me give up at least two relationships that were moving in the direction of long-term commitment, and whether you call it intuition, instinct, the subconscious mind or God, what it came down to was much the same thing: I did not get married. 

And as to the becoming-a-freak concern: that one’s pretty minor, too, something I can talk myself out of pretty easily. The giving up control thing, though—that one is for real. That is the big one. That, and just making all this damn effort.

And because of this, I delay a bit longer and wait to see whether or not the fear will fade with time.

***

In spite of my regrettable lack of enthusiasm for the first part of my experiment, the second part is progressing rather well. To initiate the process of finding a few close friends, I emailed a bunch of people inviting them to a party this coming Saturday night—sort of a meet-the-baby thing for my two-month-old. There will be food. There will be drinks. There will be a new baby to hold and cuddle. But will it be more fun, or more awkward? 

We will find out.  

That milestone accomplished, I did for this area of my life what I have in the past done for so many others: In true geek fashion (the geeky geek fashion, though, not the hipster geek fashion, unfortunately) I made a plan. That’s right: I have created a detailed action plan that, if carried out faithfully, will (I believe) help me find at least several good friends by the end of the year, and a good-sized network of acquaintances as well. Here it is, in classic list format:

• I will host get-togethers at our home at least one Saturday night per month, continually adding to the guest list as I meet new people. If some of the gatherings don’t go well, I will keep at it, understanding people sometimes need quite a bit of time together before they feel fully comfortable in a party environment.
• I will join at least one moms’ group and attend it weekly at least. Moms’ groups are awesome because doing things with kids is always a great excuse to get together, even if the activity wouldn’t normally be very interesting for adults alone. Also, there’s always lots to talk about. 
• I will invite someone on a coffee date at least once per month. 
• I will attend other group activities for people with interests similar to mine at least once per month. 

Is that enough? I think so … for now. We will see how it works and then revise if necessary. Also, like I said before, in order to track my progress I will keep a numbered list of my friends that I will add to and subtract from as needed. 

I know, it’s geeky. But I have to do something. Making a plan is better than not making a plan, I think.

***

February 13: I Cheated

All right, that’s it. That is it. I am ready. I’m ready to set a date to start my experiment. How do I know that I’m ready? I know because I’m excited. Finally—finally!—the thought of taking on this challenge is making me sincerely happy. Why the change in perspective? Because last weekend, I did something I would recommend to anyone in my (exact) situation: I cheated. I peeked in the answer key in the back of the book before even reading the chapter. Here’s what happened.

Last weekend was Valentine’s Day weekend, and to celebrate my husband Jack and our baby and I took a trip to visit some family. The Friday we left, I noticed the calla lilies in our yard had just bloomed. My immediate thought was, I should pick some flowers and put them in a vase. And it wasn’t just a normal thought; it was That Kind of Thought. It was that urge that seemed to originate somewhere outside of myself—or maybe just deeper within. And so, even though I didn’t see the point of doing so since I was leaving in just a few hours, remembering my experiment, I decided to listen. I picked a few of the flowers, then a few of another type as well, then got a vase of water and placed them on our dining room table. They were pretty, and I enjoyed looking at them while we got ready to go.

Sunday night, Jack and I returned from the trip. Because it was Valentine’s Day, I’d been given a rose. It was fairly late when I came into the house, and I was quite tired, so when I saw the vase of flowers on the table I was glad I could add the rose to the vase without any further preparations on my part. The lilies still looked great, too, and for the rest of the week I had a whole bouquet of fresh-cut flowers on my table. 

Okay, so maybe it’s a bit silly. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a sign. A sign that I can do this: I can give up control. I can choose to listen to my intuition, even when my mind tells me not to. I can hear God—even in the minor details of life. And knowing this is making me really excited to begin my experiment for real. 

And so. Today I am looking at the calendar, and thinking about my schedule, and here is what it says: today, nothing. Tomorrow, nothing. Friday, nothing. Saturday, having a party at our house. Sunday, going on a date with my husband. All next week, nothing. 

All right, then. I have no excuse. 

So why don’t I pray about this for a minute as I write. Dear God: Should I start my experiment today? No. I want to start in a morning. Should I start early next week? No—too far away. I want to take advantage of the excitement I’m feeling right now. Should I start tomorrow? No. Not enough time to mentally prepare. Should I start on Friday? No. Who starts anything on a Friday? So: Saturday? Maybe. A relatively quiet day, but not too quiet—at the party I can practice my new listening skills too, praying about what to say and do to help everyone have a good time. 

Saturday, then. Saturday the ninth. 

***

And now the friends report: This evening I went to a moms’ group activity—my first one ever. The group (which I found on a website) is made up of mothers who are also writers. Since I was feeling tired today, I almost skipped it, but at the last minute I went, not wanting to seem flaky from the start. The result? Well, a little so-so. 

The group met at Starbucks, which I thought would be nice since it’d be just coffee and conversation and no kids running around distracting us. While I enjoyed the conversation, there were two problems with the evening. One is that my sleep-deprived brain was overly emotional and sensitive and I found myself complaining about something stupid to a woman I’d never met until today. This was mildly embarrassing, but not such a big deal. 

The second problem with the evening was much worse: for most of the two hours I was there, I felt completely ignored. The woman sitting next to me had her back to me nearly the whole time and the woman sitting across from me seemed interested in talking only to the woman sitting next to her. One of the women—the one I complained to unnecessarily—did smile at me in sympathy several times and ask me a few questions, but she was too far away to really talk to for long. I was surprised at how terrible this first effort made me feel. It was a moment of vulnerability, and I got hurt. It seems unlikely that any of these moms harbored any ill will, or disliked me in any way. And yet, the experience felt personal. It felt like something was wrong with me. I was the new person. I didn’t fit in. It told me the same story I’ve been telling about myself for many, many years.

Despite these mixed results, I’ve decided keep attending this group. One bad experience does not a pattern make. 

Next time, I’ll just get a better seat. 

***

March 9: The Real Day One

Well, this was it, folks. Today was day one—the real day one. All morning and afternoon, I had no plans at all, and much to my surprise, it was wonderful. Interestingly, it did not start out wonderful. When I woke up this morning, it felt just like any other day. I even felt cranky. Then I remembered the experiment and my plan—and soon after that, everything started to change. I began listening to my inner guide, and I actually heard what it was saying. In other words: it worked. It really, really worked. 

It felt good. 

Here are some of the things I did today that felt, to me, inspired: 

• I didn’t take a walk with the baby as I usually do. Instead, I felt it would be better to stay home all day, play with the baby and relax until our visitors came over tonight. 
• I took a bath when I felt to do so, even though I wanted to wait. Turned out to be great timing as a little while after that Jack came home early and was ready to play with the baby while I got other things done.
• I washed the dishes when I felt inspired to. 
• I put the baby down for a nap when I felt inspired to. 
• I decided not to organize my office as I had earlier planned to do.
• I took a walk by myself around midnight, even though I was exhausted—and I enjoyed it very much. 

These are just small things, of course—no life-changing decisions here. Taken together, though, they really mean something. They mean that I can do what I’ve decided to do this year. I can actually learn to pray without ceasing. 

What’s more: it may be easier than I thought it would be—possibly a lot easier. At some point early on in the day I got into a rhythm that I didn’t break until later in the evening after the visitors came and I became somewhat distracted. Most of the day, there was a natural flow to it. It felt nice. It felt easy. And here’s another cool thing: Not only did I enjoy my time in prayer today—I learned some stuff, too. In addition to sensing when and how to make my small decisions, I sensed two bigger, more important messages. The first was that I don’t need to be so excited all the time. The second was that it doesn’t matter who my husband is. 

Allow me to explain. 

The first of these realizations came over me sometime in the afternoon, a little while after the aforementioned rhythm had been established. As I was nursing the baby to sleep, I suddenly became aware of the fact that if this were any other kind of experiment and it was going as well as this one, I wouldn’t feel the way I was feeling right then. I wouldn’t have the same calm, the same almost placid acceptance; instead, I’d feel excited. My mind would be brimming with plans and possibilities, reminding me repeatedly of how well things are sure to work out for me if only I were able to be consistent with my plan. Then it would proceed to elaborate upon that plan in great detail. Later, when I had the chance, I’d discuss my newfound source of hoped-for fulfillment with a friend or two, outlining all of the benefits and, if they were interested, helping them discover it for themselves. That is what it was like whenever I started a new diet, or revamped my wardrobe, or reorganized my home, or got a new job. This, I was convinced, this would help me be happy. 

And I should add here that I don’t deny that those things did (and to some degree still do) help me be happier. But yesterday as I paid close attention to my thoughts, what I understood was that this get-super-excited pattern is often the hallmark of false promise. The excitement wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t my spirit’s true voice, but the voice of my earthbound mind, jumping up and down and making noise. Excitement can be good, and it can even be spiritual. But most of mine hasn’t been. It’s been false hope, hope for an external solution, and a never-ending search for the next best thing. It’s not a bad feeling, exactly—I love my plans. I love my self-improvement efforts. They’re fun. They give me something to do and to discuss. But the mania of it all … it just goes a bit too far sometimes. It’s immature. And it’s unnecessary. 

My true inner self doesn’t do a lot of handsprings. It is quiet. It is listening. It is humble. It takes one thing at a time. It’s not all about making lists and checking things off. And yet, it’s wiser, more efficient and more skilled than my mind will ever be. What I’m feeling right now, as I write this journal entry, is not excitement. It is peace. It’s a glimpse of what I’ve been looking for. Why did it take me so long to give up control? This doesn’t feel like being out of control. It feels like the opposite. It feels like my mind is finally my own—a part of me, but not the most important part. It feels like no matter what happens today, I won’t be disturbed.

Of course, I doubt it’s true that nothing could disturb me. But the little annoyances that came up today didn’t, and that’s something. Which brings me back to the second realization I had today, the realization that it doesn’t matter who my husband is. 

This was a weird one. Which is why I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t my own mind that quite suddenly made me aware of this thought as I was wiping down the kitchen counter. Jack had left the room a few moments ago after saying, “Oh, Hon, not like that,” in exactly the tone that usually gets me quickly defensive. I looked up at him—looked in his eyes—with no real expression on my face. Then I went back to work, slowly changing to his preferred technique. He walked away, and I was left to ponder this encounter. It likely meant nothing to him, but to me it was interesting. Why didn’t I react internally in the way I usually do? Why did I have zero desire to defend myself? The answer was simple: it was because I was at peace. It was because my stuff was my stuff, and his was his. His annoyance was his experience of life in that moment. My experience was loving him and knowing that his comment wasn’t personal. In spite of the implications of his tone and mannerisms, I realized that he didn’t think I was being lazy or dumb. He just really wanted the counter to be cleaner than I wanted it to be. How silly, I thought, to make it into anything else.

And that’s when it happened. That’s when the thought came to me: It doesn’t matter who your husband is. And immediately, I understood what it meant. It meant that if I am able to continue on in the mindset I’m in today, it really wouldn’t matter what my husband ever did or said. I couldn’t ever get angry or annoyed or take something personally; it just would not be possible. The only thing that would matter is the way that I’d respond. And the more times I responded calmly, asking Jack to “please use a different tone of voice” or making a joke about the difficult day he must’ve had, the less condescending he would likely act on a regular basis. This wouldn’t work for every husband, maybe, but for most, I think it would. 

I could to married to almost anyone, and be happy.

Crazy thought, right? Crazy thought: Should this experiment be successful, I could one day have total immunity to annoyance. But then, it’s not really so crazy. After all, isn’t that why I’m doing this? I’m doing this to become a more spiritually connected person. And if I become a bit more connected every day, true divine connection feels inevitable.  

By the way, the fear I mentioned before about acting overly spiritual around other people? Not actually a problem so far. Maybe that only happens when you start to get a big head about it. Or maybe I’ve just been misinterpreting the seemingly condescending but possibly actually sincerely helpful spiritual guru-types I’ve met. 

In any case. I hope I’m in no danger of being mistaken for the same, and I’ll continue to try to prevent it. 

March 10: Moody, Sick and Tired

Day two: moody. Sick, too. And pretty tired. Moody, sick and tired, and doubting today will go as well as yesterday. 

***

(later)

Well, I went for a walk today and despite continuing to feel crappy, I managed to have a pretty good day. I wasn’t able to keep up the same level of spiritual awareness that I did yesterday, but there was one notable experience. Inspired by a tip from that inner guide I’ve been writing about so much, I decided to go to the library, then once there to take the time to ask a librarian a question I’ve had for a while. As we chatted, another librarian came by and noticed a book I was checking out, The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. She said she liked it and we got into a discussion on spirituality. It was a nice chat and before I left she gave me a book recommendation as well as a church recommendation. It was the first time I had heard of a church where people actually believe the same stuff I do. 

The timing of this conversation feels totally non-coincidental to me. I am very much looking forward to meeting some like-minded people—and I’m happy today was somewhat successful after all. 

***

Over on the friends news, things are moving along. As the writers’ group hasn’t been offering enough activity choices, I joined a second group as well, this one for working moms. Last week I went to three meetings and play dates: one at somebody’s home (no one really talked; everybody was focused on their kids and I left early), another coffee outing (good conversation, no special connections) and a movie. At the movie I met a mom who lives near my house—Friend Number Two, I’ll call her here—and she invited me to another group event. Then she actually followed through with an email and today, the baby and I met her and several others at an indoor playground at the mall. 

Here’s the short version of the evening: Friend Two, a very friendly lady, gave me a long lecture on the importance of sleep and feeding schedules (parenting practices I purposely avoid). Most of the other moms spent most of the time telling their kids what not to do and then watching to make sure they didn’t do it, which didn’t leave a lot of time for conversation. Friend Number Three, though, was different. 

Friend Number Three is plump, plain-looking and ponytailed—the low-maintenance type of person I’m usually drawn to. We talked about our jobs and our husbands and even our spiritual beliefs, and before I left I told her I’d email her soon. 

I haven’t crossed Two off my list yet, but it’s this Three I’m really hopeful about. 

This is a short story that I wrote and self-published in 2013 or so called Medium Rare, about two college students living in the mid-1990s and trying to make sense of modern life. It started its life as a screenplay, but it’s too short and frankly, too weird for that medium and so, I reproduce it here, knowing that its merits might be found more in its message and style than in its plot.

It is a work of fiction.

Act One

Black screen. The sound of rustling leaves, then silence. Cut to a wide lawn between two 1970s-era classroom buildings on a community college campus. Outmoded lamposts line a nearby path. It is September of 1996.

Cut to a girl dressed in flannel sitting on the steps of a classroom building, vigorously chewing her fingernails.

Cut to a central outdoor square where many unconventionally dressed students stand in small groups discussing their clothing. Then cut to a shy-looking boy wearing a plain T-shirt, sneakers and jeans, standing alone and looking awkward.

Cut to an outdoor bench upon which three female students sit with their back facing the camera. The first woman is reading a book. She is very small. The middle woman is scribbling something on a piece of paper. She is of average size. The third girl is biting her fingernails. She is fat. 

Fade to black. The sound of rustling leaves, then silence.

Cut to a green space between two buildings, where MELVIN walks casually, a monkey dressed like a person following behind him. 

Cut to a tall clock in the middle of campus reading 11:59 a.m.

Cut to a field where a large group of students paint on canvases during an art class is taking place. A PROFESSOR looks on as NELL splashes her canvas messily.

Professor: “The more you fuck it up, the better it is.”

Cut to a restaurant. SOPHIE sips her coffee matter-of-factly. Across from her, JOHN stares silently.

John: “Sophie, I have something to tell you. I’m in love with you.”

Sophie: “Lying fuck.”

John looks downcast. He takes a sip of coffee, then sets down his cup.

Cut to a dorm room. UJI, GEORGE and DARRIN sit on a couch in a tidy-looking living room watching a football game. No beer or food is present. The guys are dressed well. Suddenly, Darrin stands up and faces the other two.

Darrin: “Do you think we’re … pretty?”

George: “Naw.” 

Darrin sits down again. The three men resume their attention to the game.

Cut to the campus lawn. NELL and RYAN lay side by side, reading. Both are in their mid-twenties, average-looking and slightly nerdy. Nell wears a brown sweater and glasses. Ryan wears a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. 

Nell: “So. Here we are.”

Ryan: “Yup. Again.”

Nell: “Do you like being here?”

Ryan: “In college?”

Nell: “Yeah.”

Ryan: “Sure. It’s good. People are weird, though.”

Nell: “Yeah. People are weird. Everything is weird.”

Ryan: “Yeah.”

Nell: “Do you think … Are we weird?”

Ryan: “Probably. I don’t know. Are you?”

Nell: “I don’t feel weird. I think I might be … normal.”

Ryan: “I won’t tell anyone.”

Nell: “Thanks.”

Ryan: “I might be though.”

Nell: “Well, you probably are.”

Ryan: “I am?”

Nell: “Yeah, you are.”

Ryan: “How so?”

Nell: “You always want to figure everything out.”

Ryan: “Don’t you?”

Nell: “You know I do. But I don’t try so hard.”

Ryan: “Yeah. I suppose that’s true. Why don’t you? Try so hard?”

Nell: “I don’t know. Why do you?”

Ryan: “I don’t know. I guess because I think it’s possible.”

Nell: “You do?”

Ryan: “Yeah.”

Nell: “Okay.”

Ryan: “Okay, what?”

Nell: “Okay. You’ve convinced me. Good argument.”

Ryan: “I’ve convinced you?”

Nell: “Yes. You’ve convinced me. Let’s figure it out.”

Ryan laughs. “Okay.”

Cut to a clothing store in a shopping mall. UJI, an Asian man of college age, tries on a jacket, then, solemnly, purchases the jacket. 

Cut to Uji’s apartment. Wearing the new jacket, he enters the apartment, switches on the light, and walks into his bedroom. He opens his bedroom closet, where there is a long line of black leather jackets hanging side by side. He takes off his shoes, places them in the closet, and shuts the door. Then he throws his new jacket over a chair, goes into his living room, and sits on his couch, a blank look on his face.

Cut to a meeting room. From the opposite side of a long table, an exceedingly cold, proper-looking woman interviews NATALIE RINDSTONE, a young female student, also very proper.

Interview: “As a quality control specialist for our company, you would assist in the process of ensuring end-user value so that future brand loyalists retain their positive impressions throughout the sales life cycle. How would you, Miss Rindstone, help enhance the value of our company?”

Natalie: “I would apply the maximum effort to all responsibilities entrusted to me. I believe I carry all necessary competence-related requirements to work well within your system of operations.”

Interviewer: “Our company prides itself in its reputation as the finest producer of its kind in the region. What unique, value-adding perspective will you bring to our organization?”

Natalie: “The work I do, whatever it may be, is a consistent expression of myself—and, therefore, it is art—the art of self.”

Interviewer: “What aspects of this company will best fit your personal goals for the future?”

Natalie: “Touché.”

Interviewer: “That will conclude our interview, Miss Rindstone. Thank you for your interest. We will be calling our choices later in the week.”

Cut to the campus lawn. RYAN and NELL reading. Suddenly, Nell rolls over, puts her book down and turns to Ryan.

Nell: “So. What’s our plan?”

Ryan: “You and your plans.”

Nell: “No, seriously. We need a plan.”

Ryan: “Gees, Nell. Now you’re getting excited.”

Nell: “I know. I hate that about myself. But what can you do.”

Ryan: “No. I’m kidding. It’s a good quality.”

Nell: “Really?”

Ryan: “Really.”

Nell: “Okay then. What should we do? I’m going to write this down.”

Ryan puts down his book. “Okay. Well, we’re already in college. That’s a start.”

Nell writes something down. “Do you really think that’s going to help?”

Ryan: “No.”

Nell: “All right. That’s not part of it, then.” She crosses something off her list. “Any other ideas?”

Ryan: “Watch movies? People learn a lot from movies. And books, of course.”

Nell writes something down. “What kinds of books?”

Ryan: “About the meaning of life?”

Nell: “Sounds good. What else?”

Ryan: “How about talking to people?”

Nell: “Hmmm … That could be awkward.”

Ryan: “That’s okay.”

Nell writes down something else. “Books, movies and talking.”

Ryan: “Not very specific.”

Nell: “No problem. We have time.”

Ryan: “When should we start?”

Nell: “Well, we’re reading right now, anyway.”

Ryan: “Yeah. Let’s go back to that.”

They return to their books.

Cut to a clothing store in a shopping mall. DARRIN is quickly, efficiently pawing through clothing racks. OLIVIA, his girlfriend, follows behind him, looking bored. He takes a shirt and examines it. 

Darrin offers Olivia the shirt. “Will you hold this?”

He hands it to her. She looks at it, then looks at him, annoyed, then takes the shirt.

Cut to a cafe. JOHN and SOPHIE sit quietly. Suddenly, John reaches over and takes Sophie’s hand.

John: “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Sophie: “(looking up) “I have one question for you: will you get jealous if I hang out with other guys?”

John: “No.”

Sophie: “Then no.”

Cut to a dorm room. JESSICA, a very pretty girl, applies makeup.

Cut to a busy street. Jessica is walking alone when a passing car full of college students suddenly slows alongside of her. After staring a moment, the students begin to cheer and clap in genuine approval of her appearance.

Jessica looks up, smiles graciously, and curtsys. 

Cut to the campus lawn. NELL and RYAN lie side by side.

Nell: “Some people say love is the meaning of life.”

Ryan: “I have heard that, yes. What do you think?”

Nell: “I don’t know. I guess there’s nothing better, anyway.”

Ryan: “No. I guess there isn’t.”

Nell: “Have you ever been in love?”

Ryan: “No. I guess not. And you?”

Nell: “No.”

Cut to the path along the campus lawn, where one by one, students reply to an off-camera interviewer.

Natalie Rindstone: “Love? Romantic love? I doubt it.”

Olivia: “Definitely.”

Uji: “Sex is how we propagate our species. So, yes.”

Darrin: “Metaphysical love? Or physical love? Physical love, no. Metaphysical love, yes. Probably.”

Jessica: “God is love. And he is what gives us meaning. So, yes. Love is the meaning of life.”

Sophie just laughs.

John: “(sadly) “I don’t know.”

***

Act Two

Black screen. The sound of rustling leaves, then silence. Cut to the campus lawn. It is now December, and the trees are bare.

Cut to a classroom building. In the lobby sits a statue that resembles “The Thinker” by Rodin, with two differences: both of his hands are on his chin, and his shoulders are slumped.

Cut to the pathway by the campus lawn. A man and a woman, both extremely fat, walk side by side. We only see them from behind. Though they are using exuberant hand motions, their voices are not heard. After a few long moments, they turn out of sight. 

Cut to a green space between two buildings, where MELVIN walks casually, a monkey dressed like a person following behind him. 

Cut to a tall clock in the middle of campus reading 11:59 a.m.

Cut to the school cafeteria. While eating with a female friend, PENELOPE notices some spots on her skin.

Penelope: “I think I’m allergic to cauliflower. I’ve never been allergic to anything before.”

Cut to a lecture hall stage. GEORGE stands at the podium as the audience applauds. When they stop, George clears his throat then begins his speech. 

George: “Wow. Well. I never thought I’d be here. This is amazing. This award is so meaningful to me personally. It is a crucial award. It is a critical award given by the critics who make crucial decisions on who will indeed, in the future, be truly successful … It shows that, although my novel hasn’t actually been written yet, you, the Pen Futurist Foundation, believe in me. You’ve seen something. Something … unique. Original. Interesting. For that, I thank you. I dedicate this award to my future wife, my future children, and the future of the writing profession, as well as the future of the Pen Futurists. Thank you. Thank you.”

The audience applauds enthusiastically. 

Cut to a music room. HARRY, an overweight student, stands, clears his voice importantly, then begins to sing.

Harry: “Me me me me me!”

Cut to the campus lawn, where RYAN and NELL sit, as before.

Ryan: “What about … religion?”

Nell: “I know a guy who says that he’d do anything for his religion.”

Ryan: “Yeah. I wonder if he really would.”

Nell: “That’s definitely the meaning of his life. And it makes sense, actually. What’s more important than what happens after you die?”

Ryan: “Nothing. Unless nothing happens. Then everything.”

Nell: “Yeah. Confusing, isn’t it?”

Cut to the path along the campus lawn, where one by one, students reply to an off-camera interviewer.

Jessica: “I am a very spiritual person. But I never really have time to pray.”

Harry: “I don’t think about dying. I’m still young.”

Penelope: “Jesus.”

Cut back to Ryan and Nell on the lawn.

Nell: “That didn’t help.”

Cut to a bus stop near campus. RYAN and NELL approach, joining the short line of people waiting there. Since the only bench available is wet (apparently from a recent rainfall), everyone is standing in front of the bench, facing the street— except one VERY OLD MAN who is facing the bench instead, staring at the advertisement that is painted on it. His face shows confusion mixed with contempt.

Ryan and Nell, last in the line, don’t notice the man. The bus comes, blocking the view of the people, then drives away, revealing the bench. 

A sign on the bench reads: “Get Your Icks Out of Life: Use Dust-Away. Now in Spearmint.”

Cut to a city bus. NELL pulls the cord next to the window to signal a stop. She and RYAN disembark and starts to walk down the street. They enter a café and nod hello to JOHN and SOPHIE, who are sitting at a booth. They order coffee, sit down, and pull out some books and start reading. 

Cut to the cafe. RYAN and NELL eating their meal quietly, reading. The waitress comes with the bill and clears their plates in silence. On top of the bill are two fortune cookies. Nell opens her fortune cookie and starts to read. 

Nell: “Wow. This is small print.” She brings it closer to her face. “You are a dreamer. You think in colors, not in words. In the end, your ideas, not your actions, will help you. You have a quiet way about you that perplexes others. This is okay; let them be perplexed. It is good for their souls.” She turns the paper over. “Last night, when you were awake yet still sleeping, you rolled over and said to no one in particular, ‘I hope my future is as great as I think it could be. Then I would be truly fulfilled.’ Your eyes are blue, and your face is full of shadows. Your hair is brown, removing some of that mystery. You received an A on your English term paper last year, but only got a B in the class because you didn’t participate enough. Because you prefer not to participate. This is okay; some live, while others think. You think. Keep thinking.”

Ryan: “I’m going to read mine.”

Cut to the campus lawn, where RYAN and NELL sit, as before.

Nell: “I figured it out.”

Ryan: “You did?”

Nell: “Yes. I figured it out.”

Ryan: “Well?”

Nell: “Happiness.”

Ryan: “Of course. Happiness. Let’s try it.”

Nell nods eagerly.

Cut to the path along the campus lawn, where one by one, students reply to an off-camera interviewer.

Very old man: “Happiness? You’ll never find that as long as you’re looking for it. Don’t even bother.”

Uji: “Evolutionarily speaking, we’re designed to always want, and never to be satisfied. That’s what keeps us motivated to keep this thing going.”

Jessica: “Isn’t that kind of shallow?”

***

Act Three

Black screen. The sound of rustling leaves, then silence. Cut to the campus lawn. It is now March.

Cut to the inside of a classroom building. In a large foyer, a replica of the Mona Lisa is shown up-close. The one difference: she’s wearing makeup.

Cut to the front of a different building on campus, where there is a sculpture resembling the David, with one difference: he is covering his genitals with one of his hands.

Cut to a tall clock in the middle of campus reading 11:59 a.m.

Cut to the path near the campus lawn. MELVIN roller skates down the path, with monkey, also on skates, following behind. Nearby, RYAN sits alone on the lawn, staring at Melvin.

Ryan: “That was awesome.”

Cut to a living room. A DRAB WOMAN watches TV near a large window. She looks out, seeing a family ride by on their bicycles, all wearing helmets, all smiling.

Suddenly interested, she looks across the street at a playground. All of the kids on it are wearing helmets, smiling. She stands up, then goes to another window in her house. 

She looks into her neighbor’s backyard. In a sandbox a little boy is playing, wearing a helmet—and smiling. The woman raises her eyebrows in surprise, then resumes watching TV.  

Cut to a different living room. GEORGE is sitting on a couch by himself, doing homework. In the next room, a bedroom, VERY OLD MAN is sitting on the bed, watching TV at a low volume. A dog is barking intermittently in the background.

George: “Are you going to the traffic violations class?”

Very old man: “What?”

George: “Are you going to the traffic violations class?”

Very old man: “What?”

George: “The traffic violations class!”

Very old man: “I can’t hear you.”

George: “This is just like a Sartre play!”

Very old man: “What?”

George: “Sartre!”

Very old man: “Oh!”

George: “Where they are trying to talk to each other across the room but can’t hear over the dog. Or Samuel Beckett.”

Very old man: “Samuel Beckett’s plays are meant to be read not seen.”

George: “Yeah. “

Cut to a grocery store. PENELOPE pays for her groceries and leaves, then returns to the cashier, saying she was given too much change. The cashier corrects the mistake. Penelope smiles up at her proudly.

Cashier: “Thanks for doing that. My register would’ve been off.”

Penelope: “It’s okay. I know how it is. I’ve worked in retail before. I hated it when my register was off. Even a few cents. We always kept some extra pennies next to it for when that happened …”

She continues chattering. There is a time lapse, and when we rejoin the two, she is still talking as the cashier is helping other customers.

Penelope: “… I’m allergic to cauliflower. I break out in hives. I wish I knew what to do about it. Do you know what to do about it? It’s driving me absolutely crazy.”

Cut to the campus lawn. RYAN and NELL are lying side by side on their backs, starting at the sky and look dejected. There is a pause, then Nell begins to write something. She writes for about a minute, then stops.

Nell: “I wrote a poem.”

Ryan sits up. “You want to read it to me?”

Nell: “Sure. It’s called ‘I wish there was a wall in the middle of the world where everything was.’ Here it is: There is only one thing I want in life, and that is everything./Well, not everything, exactly. Just an understanding of everything, so that when I die I will know what to do./But if it isn’t possible to understand everything (which, let’s face it, seems to be the case), I would like to find a wall in the middle of the world/where everything was, so that even though I didn’t understand it I could at least observe it, and see what I could gather from the display.”

Ryan: “I like it, Nell.”

Nell: “Thank you.”

Ryan: “Do you really wish that?”

Nell: “Of course.”

Ryan: “So do I.”

Nell: “I know.”

Ryan: “How did you know?”

Nell: “I could just tell.”

Ryan: “I love you, Nell. You understand me.”

Nell: “I love you, too. You understand me, too.”

Ryan: “Do you think we’ll always be best friends?”

Nell: “I think that as long as we don’t have any other friends, we’ll have to be best friends.”

Ryan: “That’s true, I guess. But are we going to stop liking each other after a while like some other best friends do?”

Nell: “I don’t think so. But I don’t know.”

Ryan: “I don’t understand anything about life, Nell.”

Nell: “I know. That’s what makes you so sweet.”

Ryan: “Are you patronizing me?”

Nell: “No. That’s a good quality, being sweet. Don’t you think so?”

Ryan: “No, I don’t. I have never thought so.”

Nell: “That’s because you’re a guy. You don’t know that women actually like that. Good women, anyway.”

Ryan: “No, I guess I don’t know that.”

Nell: “I like that anyway.”

Ryan: “Well, I guess you’re a good woman, then.”

Nell: “You know it doesn’t work the other way around.”

Ryan: “If there was a wall in the middle of the world where everything was, where do you think it would be?”

Nell: “Probably somewhere in Wyoming.”

Ryan: “We should go there.”

Nell: “Maybe we will.”

Cut to another part of the campus lawn. JOHN and SOPHIE sit side by side. 

John: “Do ya wanna go get coffee or something?”

Sophie: “Like a date?”

John: “Sure.”

Sophie: “I only date poets. Are you a poet?”

John: “No.”

Sophie: “Then no. Sorry.”

She walks away. 

RYAN and NELL, books in hand, sit on the lawn nearby, watching this.

Nell: “And they say college doesn’t prepare you for the real world.”

Ryan: “Yeah.”

Nell: “I wish it didn’t.”

Ryan: “What a disappointment.”

Cut to the campus lawn. RYAN and NELL lie side by side reading, as before.

Ryan: “So Nell, I was wondering … Have we ever made out?”

Nell: “Why? You want to make out with me?”

Ryan: “Sure. Why not?”

Nell: “Okay. Why not?”

They kiss, looking a little uncomfortable. Then they stop and look away from each other.

Ryan: “That was nice.”

Nell: “Yeah. What were we saying?”

Ryan: “We weren’t saying anything. We were just reading.”

Nell: “Oh, yeah. I think I need to do more of that.”

They return to their books.

***

Act Four

Black screen. The sound of rustling leaves, then silence. Cut to the campus lawn. It is now March.

Cut to the campus lawn, where RYAN and NELL lie reading as before. This time, Nell is reading Civilization and Its Discontents by Sigmund Freud while eating an apple.

Nell: “This apple tastes like apple juice.”

Cut to a green space between classroom buildings, where MELVIN walks between two buildings, a monkey dressed like a person following behind him, as before.

Cut to a tall clock in the middle of campus reading 11:59 a.m.

Cut to a casino. UJI is standing alone at a craps table. He rolls the dice. He loses. He rolls the dice again. He loses again. He shows no emotion. His chips are taken away quickly and he plays on, again and again.

Cut to a small drive-thru espresso stand. OLIVIA, lacking enthusiasm, serves a customer, who then drives away. Another CUSTOMER then drives up. A dog hangs its head out of one of the car windows, panting. 

Olivia: “Hello.”

Customer: “Hi. Uhhh … Anything on special?”

Olivia looks at the dog. “Mondays we have the medium Crème Angelica for $2.99.”

Customer: “Uhhh … “I’ll have a latte. Large, vanilla, iced, with whipped cream.”

Olivia: “$4.50, please.”

Olivia prepares the drink and hands it through the window. She takes the money and thanks the driver, who then drives away. The car winds out into traffic slowly. 

Back at the espresso stand, OLIVIA is sticking her head all the way out of the stand’s drive-thru window, the wind blowing her hair lightly. She is smiling. 

Cut to the campus lawn, where RYAN and NELL sit, as before.

Ryan: “You okay?”

Nell: “Yeah. Okay.”

Ryan: “Book good?”

Nell: “Yeah. I’m bored.”

Ryan: “Me too.”

Nell: “Wanna go check out a chatroom?”

Ryan: “Sure.”

They look at each other. There is a long pause. Suddenly, both of them smile knowingly.

Nell. “The Internet.”

Cut to the library. Ryan and Nell stand next to a computer, staring at the screen. They click on the Netscape logo, and the AOL home page comes up. Ryan and Nell look at each other again.

Nell: “I wish there was a wall in the middle of the world where everything was.”

Ryan: “Eureka.”

Nell: “Fucking eureka.”

Cut to a bedroom. Ryan and Nell are lying side by side on a bed.

Nell: “It was there all along.”

Ryan: “Your poem was inspired.”

Nell: “And it’s true. It’s everything.”

Ryan: “Is it the meaning of life, though?”

Nell: “It’s not the meaning of life. It’s just … life.”

Cut to the campus lawn. RYAN and NELL lie on the lawn, as before. MELVIN and his monkey pass by on their way to a classroom building. Noticing them, Ryan and Nell simultaneously prop themselves up on their arms.

Nell: “Excuse me, sir.”

Melvin: “Oui, mademoiselle?”

Nell: “Please tell me how it all makes sense.”

Melvin: “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Nell: “So what do we do?”

Melvin: “Make sense of it.”

He walks into the building. Soon, he is followed by the entire cast of characters. First, John and Sophie, holding hands, follow him in. Then, Darrin, Uji, and George, talking and walking together. After that, Natalie Rindstone and Jessica go inside, followed by Penelope and Harry. Lastly, Olivia goes inside. She is alone.

Ryan and Nell get up and follow the others, pausing just outside the building’s front door.

Ryan: “That’s it.”

Nell: “That’s it.”

They go inside.

On the Bus is a short collection of poems I wrote in my twenties about love, lust and discovery. A few were published in the poetry anthology my university put together, and though many years have passed since writing them, I still genuinely like them. I don’t know if that means anything, but either way, here they are.

Foreword

It was a lot of hard work writing these poems, and it took a long time.

I am glad that it happened before I was around.

Most of the poems in this collection are about love, the hardest thing in the world to get right, and, with a few exceptions (Not for Me and Night), they weren’t written by me. They were written over the past ten or more years by the young woman that I used to be. In a sense, some of them might have even been written by the young girl I used to be, the one who hid on the steps around the corner from the playground during recess. And reading over them has made me want to talk to that girl again sometime. I think her poems are good.

And I miss her a lot.

Mollie Player, September 2011

On the Bus

They told me you did nothing
unusual the day that I
left. You moved like you
always do through the
long slow heat of a
summer afternoon.

But that day I waited for the
bus, watching the
cars pass by, and I waited for a
discarded Styrofoam cup to finally
crush under a passing wheel or
blow away

***

Memories

Will anything ever again smell
like the wet sweet smell of the
grass in that big empty football
field during a certain autumn
night

***

House

He is my son, too, and I am his mother. The last summer we were together, it did not feel like summer because we did not go anywhere at all. We slept and we lived and that is
all.

We were alone.

He was my favorite thing and my
lover, and living there was just a
convenience. And no one will
ever know what we did together
all those hours we were there, even
me.

Even me.

***

Oxygen Haiku

Music builds a whole eating living breathing
world out of the thin oxygen-deprived home
air

***

Feet in the Doorway

You know how sometimes you can
feel it in your feet, because your feet
have blood and your
blood is in your heart—
at—
some—
point . . .
Anyway,
Both of my feet can feel the waiting when I’m
watching you before you go to
bed, when you can’t see me in the
doorway—

(my feet are tingling
in the doorway)

***

Maybe You Are Convinced Without Words

Maybe you are not convinced.
How to convince someone who is so
unconvinced,
habitually?
(Maybe you are convinced without words.)
One paragraph is not enough for you
to know your
true effect
(you affect me habitually).
Maybe you will never know
(Maybe you are convinced without words.)

***

A Promise

Henceforth,
my poems to you
shall be like
raindrops on a
tin roof: not always
pleasant like
rain can be, but
certainly incessant
and, ideally,
disturbing.

***

Hands

I could write about the way I see your long blond body and your
strong standing pitchfork way of
standing and your
loud-like-a-metal-crate-scraping-on-a-tile-floor vocal
expression kind of
expression, and maybe you would
understand.
But how do I write about your
hands, and the way they
obtain me like an
accomplishment
(your first major accomplishment)
(you are a boy)
and the way that the sun winks pink through the slanted window shades
in the morning
at this screaming baby manhood

(they are accomplished—)

***

(Next to God and of Course America I)

I of course do not expect
perfection.
You, however,
are like the Milky Way,
in its way
perfect, and scientific.

(I do not want perfection.
I only want the boy on a
platform waiting for the
subway in a city he
does not understand—)

***

Nevertheless

Nevertheless,
it is always there, love,
even in the teeniest tiniest most
infinitesimal hour of the
morning so small you think its
almost not even an
hour at all—

***

A Love Poem

When I woke up this
morning I realized you are the
festering red-orange
wound
that is the
sun
on the pink bloody
landscape that did not
ask for light—

***

Inspiration

For me it’s like a
canvas, perfect and
complete, falling on my
body with a sudden color
palate and a readied
pain: It’s for me to paint the
picture but first to
rid myself of the
weight—

***

To You

The dry spot on the pavement is still
there from where your car was
parked this morning during a light
rain

***

The Guest

Another lazy night and the car door
Announces the arrival. The fifth-floor

Bedroom window is filled with a grayish
Silhouette whispering, “Stop time.” This is

The best part. The anticipation, snow-
Streaked streets lit and quiet like they know

And are also ashamed. They hear the blinds
Slide shut and they know that as the clock
chimes,

Speaking of four a.m., the sun will rise
And so will she. The morning will cover the
night.

***

Malkovich

Don’t
ask me to love
your toenail
biting
and your Being-John-Malkovich head of
blond curly
ideas.

I will not
ask you to love
my pink neon
plastic shoes
or my
Pulp Fiction all-night dancing
fetish.

Love me;
disregard these
(secondary)
quirks.

***

Spinning

Here I am a joke; but I turn the joke
Around; I spin it like a nickel on

A counter at a penny candy store.
A shivering shiny menace in a

Penny candy world. Spins past the almond
Roca apple fritter fatter farther

Till it too gives up. Stops and falls to its
Stomach on the marble surface of an

Undefeated front. It lies, it lies,
And refuses this frivolous revolt.

So in the end, my protest made no change at
All; it was only a distraction.

***

Man at the Opera

Man is arm
stretched flat on opera chair
back curled fingers hiding agendas and rough
skin dress shirt sleeve folded up at
wrist
feigning
carelessness

***

I Don’t Know What We Said

I don’t know what we said,
but the time
stopped and the ache in my chest turned to
flesh-marring shivering dull exultation.
(I stole ‘exultation’ from Dickens—)
It doesn’t matter.
He set me on a table, took my shirt and ripped
it open and saw my chest
and removed the lonely cancer like a surgeon.
There was no one after
to replace him for his skill.
Does he miss me, still?
This bleeding will stop—
(where to go?)

***

The Queen

The queen sits in her castle
breathing
irregularly.
The boy stands near her door
listening
carefully.

***

Untouchable

The only
one who ever
touched me never
did again;
he saw the
trash
throbbing for a
heart
underneath my clothes,
turned around and never
looked again.
But I like my black
soot-bathed heart;
better than the pink ripe
flesh of youth,
it is the
truth.

***

Attempted Love Poem

I don’t know how to write a
love poem. I never have before.
There is no poetry for the
pain in my chest under the
breast that just
breathes and won’t
leave,
and there is no poetry for
love.

***

A Kitchen Floor

They still debate Hemingway.

If they can still debate Hemingway,
I may never be found.

I may never be found.

Only gods can find things because
only gods can see.

Only gods can see.

The rest of us are still searching for
very large inventions like a
black-and-white tile kitchen floor and
discovery.

***

That Night

That night, he was like
perfection, almost. His eyes were so
kind. His neck was so slim and
convincing.
As I stared at him he
laughed at me and we
stayed awake for a
very long time.

After that, though, he was
gone. And that is how he
will always be to
me now. He will be
apart from it all, like
something from outside this
plain earth, with
half-misty sun-scraped
eyes, for whom life
will always be a
bowl of cherries that
he doesn’t even
really want to eat.

***

Moving

Right now,
the whole world is
moving, very slowly,
but moving, and I’m just
closing my eyes, trying
not to be
seasick.

***

Just One Bite

He does not love me. He will
never love me. He will never
bake a cake for my birthday with
orange frosting and little yellow
roses on the top like the one we
saw in a store window that I
told him I thought was so
nice.

Not even once.
And even if he did, I wouldn’t eat it.
But I would have a bite.

***

Night

The only thing left to do at
one o’clock in the morning is to
wait for you to turn
over in your sleep so that I can
see your face and
make sure all this is not my
imagination—

The only thing left to do at
one o’clock in the morning after you’ve
fallen asleep is to
look out of the window and wonder if the
whole entire world is telling me a
story, and, if so, what is it
saying about
us?

***

Waking Up

It wasn’t even three o’clock
this morning when
you like a monster
woke me from my
dreams. I opened my
eyes and scraped a
shin escaping from
you and the repetition of
waiting and finding and
throwing away, like a
kid with a toy he
asked for but never really
wanted.

And yet, there were
hours. Hours from two to
twelve, but that’s
thirty-six thousand
seconds and all those
minutes as well.

Besides, it was profound.
Everything was profound.
Even the salt and pepper
shakers were profound.
Somehow to me they
seemed like more than just
salt and pepper shakers and
I don’t think that I am the
only one who’s ever
thought that. They sat on the
table at the restaurant not doing
anything, just thinking, and
they were profoundly obedient and
profoundly coupled and
profoundly, beautifully,
cured.

This morning, though,
I woke up. Morning is for
waking up. I saw you
next to me and I
breathed you in and
after a moment I
coughed. And I
remembered what
there was to remember,
and even just that was
enough.

Later, at home, the
bathtub faucet dripped
very slowly into the tub,
and each drip, drip, drip into the
tub melted me like ice and I, too, was
cured.

We Go Up

Two young adults make their way through a new, dystopian reality in which resources are scarce and the minutes on the clock can be the difference between life and death. Read We Go Up here.

Medium Rare

In the mid-1990s, two community college students try to make sense of modern life. Read Medium Rare here.

On the Bus: A Book of Poetry

Youthful love, lust and discovery are the themes of this poetry collection I wrote in my twenties. Read On the Bus: A Book of Poetry here.

This is a dystopian story that I wrote in 2017 or so after dreaming the first sentence and waking up with it still clear in my mind. It’s called “We Go Up.”

***

We fell asleep in the shadow of the Cordelia tree, 1605 Cement Garden Way. When we woke up, it was 6:36. It wasn’t night yet, but it was close. We shared a beer. Four minutes twenty-three seconds. Then, for fifteen minutes, we discussed our plan. “No changing it,” we said. Both of us said it. Neither of us believed the other, or ourselves.

Clay tied his shoes. Pink Asics. Good condition. Taken from a sleeping man. He apologized to me for the crime and I said, “Size six. Pink. Who’s he kidding? They aren’t his.”

I got mine–brown boots–at the river. A body. We must’ve been the first ones there. It was day–early morning–and I shouldn’t’ve been awake. But I was hungry, so I broke the rules. And I’m glad I did. 

Some people have better water drains. Some people have better can openers. But we have the best shoes. 

It’s our thing. 

We started walking. As we did, it got dark. 7:10. We went to our usual spots first. The overpass on Mail. The dry creek bed near St. Mary’s. The trees with the hollows no one else knew about. We passed other groups. Some we recognized, most we didn’t. Nothing unusual–nothing that made us stop our rounds. Then we came to the footbridge that you have to take when you cut through Shannon Park to get to Chief street, a.k.a. The Front. 9:05.

There were four of them. They were older than us. They shook us down [change] pretty hard. Somewhere in the middle of it I took off my baseball cap and shoved it in my sleeve, but they got that, too, along with eerything we’d found so far. And our shoes. 

They hurt us but not badly. Sore stomachs and shins. We knew not to fight grown-ups too hard. We were barefoot now, but we’d slept and we were fed. We checked the time: 9:16. Two hours six in, and we had to start over. 

Across the footbridge, the Gap. Keep your head up. It’s not as empty as it looks. A few scores–about twenty grams. It went in my pocket that was inside my normal pocket. Then we arrived at the Front. 9:42.

We counted. there were twenty. Twenty was good, though. Twenty we could handle. It was early. People weren’t desperate yet. We wiped our hands on our pants and stepped forward. 

No one looked at us. Perfect. We went to a round. One of the closest ones with a bartender we’d seen before. 

“How much?” we asked the broker.

“Nine fifty,” he said.

We went cold. “Too much.”

“Eight ninety.”

“Three fifty.”

“Seven straight.”

“Four ten.” 

He laughed. “Seven straight.”

Clay bent his right knee. I didn’t look, but I bent mine, too. I nodded to the man. 

“What’s the trade?” he asked. 

“Work,” said Clay. He always said it. I never could. 

He gave us a card. But before we could leave, something broke the sky. It was the sound. 

10:02.

No work. 

We followed the sound, not with our ears but with our eyes. One bullhorn. Another. Now two.

“We have to work,” said Clay. 

“We got the cards,” I said. 

“Seriously?” asked the man. 

“Yeah,” I said. 

“You guys know what’s left, right?”

We nodded.

“Then please, be my fucking guest.” He rose his hand and lifted two fingers.

The men with the bullhorns approached. “All we have is the Mountain. Three hours up, two there, then Five back.”

“That’s fine.”

“Ever done the Mountain before?”

“Not since the slide.”

“You can climb?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go.”

10:15.

***

10:50. We go up.

***

The chain is like a dog leash. You can hold it, but you can also let go. You just have to slip the loop off your wrist. There are scores on the way, but you can’t grab them—can’t even look. If you look, you start to get ideas. 

12:54. We’re there. We unhook. Four minutes late and we haven’t even started. The biggest guys choose first. We’re litlte. 

We dig. Our patch is picked over. We find worms and beetles. Leaves, of courase. Two ripe berries. We see a group of mushrooms, but they’re the wrong kind. We step on them. Maybe they’ll be good food for someone else. 

We dig more. 

**

3:08 a.m. A lot of dirt. A whole trench. Three canvas bags of insects between us. The officer yells, “Two minutes,” and for the first time since we started, we look at each other. We eat the lunch they give us: porridge. X’s eyes are tired. There is mud in the creases under them. There is a branch in his hair. I take it out, and he closes his eyes briefly to acknowledge the favor. The officer yells again. “3:10.” We stand up. 

*

Going down is harder by far than going up. Our feet slip. We’re easily out of breath. At the bottom we turn in our sacks and collect our reward. A bag of lentils each and half a loaf of bread. 

I look at my watch. “Forty minutes,” I say. X smiles. Forty whole minutes. I laugh. The [money guy] raises his eyebrows at us. The other workers leave slowly, each to their side of the [divide].

6:13.

“Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

“We need a fire, don’t we?”

“Naw. Enough work for one night. We’ll eat the bread and save the beans for tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

We don’t take the road. We take the field, like before. We are carrying too much. We walk far. Very far. Around one camp and across some lots. We don’t want to stop walking, but we do. 

We’re at the scrap yard. There’s one good vehicle left, a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. We laugh when we see it, hit the front with our flat hands. Kick the tires. 

“Yeah, she’ll be all right. How much you want for it?”

“Damn. We could stay here for a week.”

We climb in, each to a row, him in the back and me in the front. We don’t have our shoes, but we have bread, and we eat it all, eat it right, slowly, with water. Our stomachs cramp, but not much. As the sun rises, we talk. We make plans for when things get back to normal. 

“I always wanted to be a fireman,” X tells me. I tell him I will, too. I tell him I’ll be his boss.

“What would we do if we weren’t looking for food, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Fight fires, I guess.”

“And what about the rest of the time? Watch TV, like we used to?”

“Naw. TV is for babies.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Think we’ll find some other kids soon, like before?”

“I think so.”

“Girls?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Maybe we’ll go south.”

“Maybe. It’s okay this way too, though.”

“Yeah. It’s okay for now. No one telling us what to do.”

“Tonight wasn’t bad, was it?”

“Naw. Not so bad.”

We pause a moment, our hands on our stomachs.

“There’s light,” I say. He nods, and covers his windows. I cover mine, too. 

We go to sleep. Tomorrow, we’d go up again.