White Noise

Your name is white noise sounding in my brain,

Your face, your movements giving noise texture

Hours pass and you dissolve, I see the world

Until the phone rings. Whether you or no,

You are back again, your name sounding clear

Throughout the air, taking time to drop, drop

Drop to a low hum, but always a hum

Never to silence, never to stillness

I look back to the world and now you’re there

Leaning on the tree, laughing by the brook

Reading on my couch, naked in my tub

And where your form ends your name still remains

Coating the lens through which I breathe in life

Must you touch, my sweet, must you touch it all?

Bile

Your life could be worse. You could have inspired someone to write this:

I’d forgotten the taste of bile

When you walk through my door

I’d forgotten that noxious smell

Greed, spite, and pride infused

I’d forgotten deep self-loathing

Watching myself loathe you

My heat rises, my throat constricts

My eyes glazing, I gasp

To cool! To breathe! To sit in peace!

Were it not for that smell

I’d forgotten the taste of bile

For Love

Are you watching, Love? I’m writing to you, for you, as I should have done every moment until now. Are you hearing, Love? I’ve fallen for you, and you for me, and it is the love of storybooks and poetry. Can you believe it’s real, Love?

In the quiet, I sit and I love you, the way you move about the room. At the table, I laugh and I love you, the way you care for our guests. At the store, frustrated, I love you, the way your selection’s just so. With new friends, I’m proud and I love you, the way you radiate warmth.

Sometimes you look at me, Love, and I see it in your eyes—watching, yearning, wanting—and I slap at your hand and dance away. If you laugh, we dance together. But look at me like that again, and I open to you, for you are me, Love, and everything I have is yours, Love, and you know this, too, Love.

When you touch me, I ache with happiness, Love, with relief I fall into your bed. When I touch you, you feel at home, Love, and we swim endlessly together. My friend, my companion, my other soul, Love, you’re all of this to me.

I didn’t know I could still feel like this, after streams of lovers gone by, lovers who stole the name. I lost the meaning of love, Love, in affection, desire, in thirst and greed. But you give love to my childhood, my youth, my job, my motherhood, my grandmotherhood, things you never saw and things still to be seen. And I love you for all of this, too, Love.

The world is so fast, I forgot to be, Love. But you brought me back, back to home, back to you, Love. Though it spins ever faster, though the races are longer, though the hours are harder, though the noises are louder, though the pressures are greater, though the frenzy screams go, we will sit, holding hands, Love, we will breathe, in and out, Love, we will be, you and me, Love. I love you, I do, Love.

Adventures in Singledom

Today, I shaved a stripe in my leg. That’s what breakups will do to you.

Hours after your heart is wrenched, the brain hits the first round of questions: What? Why? How? Gah! Am I a rebounder or a mourner? And you decide where you are mentally in relation to the sex of your choice.

Then you hit the second round of questions. What do I do with the stuff? Do I throw it out or save it for memory’s sake? And some stuff goes in the trash, and some stuff remains where it was, only eyeballed, cognizant of the fact that at some point, when you’re ready, a decision will have to be made.

And then it’s time for round three—the questions you don’t ask yourself but which surface inconveniently, reminding you that you’re alone. Like the first time I'm in the shower and automatically pick up the razor and… and what? I wear pants to work in winter. And I don’t have anywhere to go, and no man or woman is getting anywhere near my legs these days. Do I shave?

So practically in spite, I swipe a swipe. Left leg, check. Right leg, check. Two pathways through the underbrush. Hell, nobody will know. A single woman’s inner rebellion.

And now I sit in my bathrobe with two partially hairy legs, finger venting on my laptop. Maybe I’ll pour myself a drink and then rub the hairless stripes against one another to see how it feels. Could I get just the smooth parts to touch, or would I inevitably feel a prickle from the hedges on either side of the path?

Golly, isn’t this fun?

In its own way, I suppose it is.

The End

Whisper to me
I'm not the one
You don't love me
Don't desire me
And you know it

Whisper to me
That who I am
My thoughts, my love
Could never form
A whole with you

My heart could close
Could stop the blood
Pouring out of
The heart that lives
Inside my mind

Hush, dear heart, slow
Down your sad thoughts
Stop whispering
Mistake, Mistake
Mistake, Mistake

I hate a kid

There is a child who lives in an apartment next door. She is the best form of birth control money can buy. I hate this kid. That’s a terrible thing to say; I know. Part of me feels bad for saying it. But you would hate her too.

At least once every day, this two year-old-girl screams and cries. This takes place from 7 am to 8 am, an hour of my “sleep” spent suffocating myself with a pillow, trying to drown out shrieks and yells and earth-shattering sobs. The only way I can get the noise out of my head is to repeat audibly to myself (while still under a steamy hot pillow) my own personal rosary: I hate you I hate you I hate you. More often than not, I get an afternoon and evening reprise.

Granted, sometimes she just cries, but they are deep, moaning, horrible cries, cries that make me suspect that someone just told her about mortality and eventually she is going to die. But I doubt that she can even conceive of mortality and the infinite abyss, so she’s probably upset about needing to eat her oatmeal. Child, just eat your stupid oatmeal. For the love of God, eat your oatmeal.

More often than not, however, these wails bemoaning her existence are accompanied by top-of-the-lung screaming, screaming that carries no tonal overtures like her diatonic bawlings. It’s just a blast of nuclear energy scoffing at the walls separating us and driving its way into my ear canal. WHY? You are TWO! Life is not bad for you! You want to cry about something? Graduate college and face the real world. In the mean time, please stop. Just…stop.

Should I be afraid for her? No. The joys of thin-walled Los Angeles apartments also include the noises from her guardians. I hear cajoling, pleadings, and the occasional snap of “Oh Stop It!” This kid is not being abused, unless they know a method for beating with no noise. Come to think of it, if they’re not employing that technique now, maybe they should start.

Is this really what being a parent is about? If I got a kid like that, I would take it back. I would say, No, this isn’t what I ordered. I wanted the angel child that would play quietly in the corner and everyone would exclaim, "Why, isn’t she precious!" to which I would reply,"‘She must get it from her father," and we would all titter and go about our lives. This child makes everyone cry, even the neighbors. Can I get a refund or store credit or something?

I could go on and on, but something has interrupted my passive aggressive linguistic lashings. There’s a strange new sound around me. The sound of… silence? I began writing this to the tune of misery, and now I hear nothing except the sound of the fan of my laptop, a car passing by, and the far away bark of a dog. White noise. Gentle noise. Noise that placates my twisted angry heart. I am going to let this anger go and find a more constructive use of my time, at least until she begins again. In the mean time, if you are a parent or know screaming children and have any words of wisdom to offer my bewildered, tired soul, please share.

The Castle

“Hi!” Sarah stood at the edge of the park’s sandbox and peered at the boy making a sandcastle. She noticed some pink flowers behind him and momentarily considered picking one or two. They matched her flip flops. But no, she wanted to play with the sandcastle more.

The boy didn’t seem to notice her. Sarah tried again. “Hellooo.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot dramatically, like Mom did when annoyed with Dad, or with Jimmy, their Labrador.

“Hi,” mumbled the boy, nervously.

Sarah evaluated his technique. The boy's castle was only two tiny lumps side by side. He must be in preschool, because everyone in kindergarten knew that sandcastles were at least two big lumps side by side.

“You should put more on top,” she declared. “I can help.”

The boy kept his eyes on the castle. He said nothing, but took his finger and began creating a moat. Boys are so stupid, Sarah thought. She climbed in the sandbox, picked up a handful of sand, and dumped it on top of the first mound. The boy quivered, and a tiny groan came out of his mouth.

Oh no, Sarah thought.

The groan turned into a wail, and Sarah sat, dumbfounded, empty hand still outstretched over the top of the castle. Idiot, she thought. It looks so much better.

Sarah’s mom hurriedly walked over, and a much rounder grownup lady scuttled close behind. “…not sure, but you know how kids are,” she heard her mother toss over her shoulder with a laugh. The other woman seemed not amused, and huffed her way over to the sandbox. Her pudgy arms reached into the fortress and plucked out the boy, tut tutting all the while. She set the boy on the ground and began brushing off his blue and white overalls.

“What happened, Sarah?” asked her mother.

“We were playing sandcastle, and I was helping,” Sarah announced matter-of-factly.

“Are you alright, Jimmy?” cooed the pudgy lady.

Jimmy? Sarah thought. He’s like my dog!

“You see, they were just playing sandcastle. No harm done,” her mother offered. “Sarah, remember to play nicely. Say sorry to Jimmy for making him cry.”

Jimmy is acting like a two-year-old, but he can’t help it. He’s just a puppy, Sarah decided. I'll be gentle. “Sorry Jimmy,” she sang, and presented him with a small grin, front left tooth missing. Impulsively, Sarah hopped up, dashed over to the pink flowers, picked the prettiest one she could find, and ran back with flower in outstretched hand. Horrified, Jimmy buried his face in his mother’s gaudy plaid skirt.

“Well,” sputtered Mrs. Pudge, taking the flower on Jimmy’s behalf, “that was very considerate. Jimmy, will you play nicely with…”

“Sarah,” her mother inserted.

“…Sarah?” Mrs. Pudge finished. “Look, she brought you this pretty flower.” Jimmy eyed the flower cautiously. There was a tiny ant crawling in the middle of it. He liked ants. His fortress could become Ant Castle if he put the flower in its middle.

He took the flower from Mrs. Pudge, crawled back into the sandbox, stuck his finger in the one undefiled lump and plopped the stem into the hole he created. Ant Castle! Maybe this Sarah wasn’t completely evil after all. Jimmy looked up at the three intimidating women with a shy smile.

“Pretty!” Sarah exclaimed. She ran over, picked another flower, ran back, and plunked it in the better sized lump. Flower Castle! Jimmy isn’t so dumb after all.

Sarah and Jimmy glanced at each other. Jimmy quickly looked down, restarted his moat, and then cautiously looked back at Sarah.

“I’ll help?” Sarah asked. Jimmy smiled and went back to work, with Sarah plunging in right beside him.

The ladies looked on approvingly. Sarah’s mom turned to Mrs. Pudge and exclaimed, “But my, where did you find that gorgeous skirt?” They wandered back to the nearby park bench, leaving the two architects to continue building the castle.