tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87779557888881053142024-03-19T06:44:00.272-06:00Writing JournalKarin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-53513943716162445252012-07-01T22:06:00.000-06:002012-07-01T22:06:21.969-06:00Day 74<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Barncat</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Martina paces in front of the club at the golf course waiting
for her father to arrive, like she does every morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She fakes a smile and waves at a regular who
heads over to the driving range before work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s even more irritated than usual at her father’s tardiness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s trying to help him damnit! The least he
could do is bother to show up somewhere<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
near</i> on time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s this kind of
irresponsibility that got him into this mess. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her father is the mess. Aging rapidly, his Alzheimer's has nearly
run the golf course into the ground. For the past several years he'd forgotten
to pay the taxes. Just forgotton. That was why she was now attempting to get
him out of debt. He'd staunchly refused to walk away from the business. She had
degrees in marketing and hospitality, not to mention the fact that she'd grown
up on this small course. She knew all the regulars plus the ins and outs of
running this particular course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still,
it wasn’t enough to convince her father to turn it over to her and just enjoy
retirement.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She'd come to help with the business a few months ago, after
finding out that her father was facing jail time for failing to pay taxes. He
must’ve received notice after notice but failed to act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t hear a word about it until a week
before the court date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d ranted and
raved with her brother over the phone about it, but he was out of the country
most of the time on business so not able to intervene in any meaningful way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d agreed to try to talk their father
into turning business matters over to Martina, but he’d refused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, she’d packed up and flown home
immediately to see if she couldn’t do some amount of damage control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dressed in a stiffly-starched pants suit with a pink button-down
and serious shoes, she'd pled with the judge to consider her father's mental
incapacitation from the Alzheimer's. She’d asked to the courts to grant her Power
of Attorney to handle his estate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since
it was against her father’s will, and he was still considered competent, she’d
gotten nowhere. Apparently, in Wisconsin, all you need to be “competent,” is a pulse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The courts could not force him to give up any
control or accept any help that he would not voluntarily go along with. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was ultimately responsible for the back
taxes and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> could</i> still spend some time
in jail, the judge reminded him. It was likely the reminder that persuaded her
father to accept her help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While it was
only a tiny step, barely noticeable to the naked eye, her father had agreed in
court to accept his daughter’s help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
her eyes, earth had shifted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In light of the help Martina would be offering and her father’s
Alzheimer’s, the judge waived the jail time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But he emphasized that they would have to come up with a repayment plan
to present back to the court in six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The judge also made it clear that if no payments were made over that six
month period, it would not mean good things at their next court date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So, get cracking you two.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Martina set to work doing some “creative” book-keeping to gain
them access to some cash for the courts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She threw herself in and wrote marketing plans, tried to organize
paperwork, staff, and tasks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All while
her father arrived late, chatted with customers, and generally thwarted her
efforts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her work still managed to sneak
a little more money into the business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was enough to keep him out for now. For now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her father had never been especially organized or business
savvy. But he'd managed to start the business from scratch and keep it for all
these years, even so. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Where was he anyway? She felt the fury rise in her, bubbling
just below the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could feel
herself ready to scream like when she was a kid and they’d stayed too long at
one of her father’s friend’s houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
built a case of anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could get up
and get here on time, why couldn’t he?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She wasn’t the one facing courts and jail, he was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t even stop to get coffee because
being on time was important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He should
damn well be here by now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
moments away from stomping her feet in a literal tantrum.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When she was little, she and her brother spent their summers coming
to the course. They’d hunt in the woods for who could find the most balls and
race barefoot over the greens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loved
the feel of well-nourished, perfectly-manicured grass on her bare feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes her dad would get a break and take
her to walk a few holes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d strut
over patchwork hills, limes and emeralds cutting diamonds across the vista.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other times she and her brother were left to
entertain themselves and would spy through fences at the people whose homes
neighbored the golf course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d be
making sun-tea on the deck while kids raced across a slip-and-slide falling in thuds
of laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martina and her brother dreamt
up elaborate plots to explain what they saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Obviously the children were fronts for what was really going on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inside</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Martina and her brother would protect the golf course from the Russians
or aliens, depending on who chose the enemy that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One time they’d come in early on a Thursday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their father got the winning bid on holding
the Milwaukee Amateur Open on his course and so he dragged them along to get
the course ready at the last minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martina
was too small to help, so lazed about on Green Three while her brother and
father worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked for lost golf
balls at first but her father had been clear that she was not to wander away
from Hole Three which had no water traps or woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without woods or water, there weren’t many
stray balls to locate, just grasses of various lengths depending on whether you
were on the green or the fairway or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bored, she caught as many grasshoppers as she could in the tall grass on
the side of the fairway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d capture a
grasshopper, tear its back legs off so she’d be able to tell if she’d caught it
before or not, then chuck it as far as she could back into the grass, making
sure to rotate her hips like her brother had shown her so her throw would get
good distance and no one would tell her she “threw like a girl.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lost count, attempted to count the
legless grasshoppers, got frustrated, and gave up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She wandered over to the green and took her shoes off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She curled her toes into the smooth grass,
tried to grab some and pull, but it was too short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted to dig into it until her nails
were muddy and her toes grass-stained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was short, yet so thick and soft it was like grass and moss had gotten together
and agreed to make a perfect, green plant that lacked the slimy, creepiness of
moss, while retaining its short, even, velvety surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d keep it in the family of grasses so it
could claim all the pedigree due a find, upstanding-grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lay back and watched the clouds, making
animals out of them, rolled over, and fell asleep with the grass against her
cheek and chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“MARTINA KATHERINE LYNCH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You cover yourself up this instant, young lady!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her father had seethed at her through gritted
teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She jerked awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shame
flooded her and she grabbed her white t-shirt and held it against her bare
chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She flushed and tried to pull her
shirt on over her head as modestly as she could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d probably been only five or six and had
seen her brother take his shirt off hundreds of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d casually toss his shirt aside, later forgetting
where he’d left it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d just wanted to
feel the mossy, even grass on her bare back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She knew, of course, that she’d never done it before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this did not convince her that she wasn’t
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">allowed</i> to take her shirt off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The humiliation she felt from her father
taught her never to make that mistake again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now, a grown woman in her thirties, she showed up early to work neatly-dressed
and freshly-showered, wearing polo shirts and tennis skirts with ankle socks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hair was done and a touch of makeup added
before the sun was up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She resented that,
even though she was on time, early morning golfers arrived before her, ready to
tee off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she was early, they were
earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if she was late, her father
was later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All she wanted was to arrive,
have a few calm moments to unlock doors, read her email, and collect herself
with a cup of coffee before facing customers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her emotions were set before she even arrived. She was angry. She
knew he would be late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew he would
forget his prescription sunglasses or a license or a tool he'd brought home
that they really needed to do work on the grounds that day. And she'd be
disdainful of his condition and the results. Downright pissed at the thing he'd
forgotten and the necessary trip back to his apartment to get it. He'd be the
object of her anger over a condition neither of them could do anything about. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s chilly out this morning. The dew on the grass flirted with
frosting overnight, but instead the dew is simply stickier than usual: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>less condensed droplets, more evenly-glazed-over
with liquid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sees puffs of condensation
sprawl when she exhales. She’s wearing a cream colored v-neck sweater over her
purple polo, but a sweater and bare legs aren't enough to protect against the
chill. She stands next to The Barn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Barn is a giant aluminum-sided, utility building with a four-car-width, manual
garage door where they keep the golf carts and the riding lawn mowers and
ladders and all other manner of equipment. She squats down and rubs her fastly numbing
calves, wishing she'd gone in earlier to get a cup of coffee for the wait, coveting
its paper-cup warmth, when she notices the cat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A haggard thing, its fur alternates between standing up in slick
brown tufts, and lying in smooth, orange-tabby spots. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Puss and putrefaction waft toward her from the
cat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its pathetic-ness is directly
matched, if not surpassed, by her compassion and the flood of caretaking she feels.
She reaches her hand out and kisses at the animal. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Here, kitty. Here kitty, kitty. I'm not gonna hurt you.
Come on over here." she coos, kiss kiss.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It slinks toward her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its
nose meets her fingertips for a quick sniff test, and she sees that it is missing
an eye and sections of its face. Upon closer examination, the brown tufts are
really injuries slick with blood and cat saliva.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She cautiously strokes an uninjured patch and
it purrs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is afraid to pick it up.
And afraid not to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn't want
blood on her clothes or grow attached to this scraggly mass. She doesn't want
to deal with the three steps ahead her mind has already traveled to where she
will incur veterinary bills and have a cat that pisses on her stuff. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she feels compelled to help it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instinctually forced, even.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She picks the thing up as gently as she can and carries it into
The Barn. Inside, there is a small office with unclaimed lost and found items.
She digs around until she finds a beige cashmere shrug and some </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">knitted golf booties<span style="color: #333333;">. She makes up a cardboard box for it and adds a thermal wrap
from the gift shop to k</span><span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">eep
the thing warm</span><span style="color: #333333;">. Then she starts making
contacts. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She emails friends and friends of friends to see what to do
about the surely dying cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would call
but it’s only 6:15 am. In the process putting the cat in the snugly lined box,
she notices a flap of skin slap open, then shut again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes her stomach lurch, and she thinks
maybe it’s a good thing she hasn’t had any coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She leaves the cat and peeks to see if her dad is here yet. He isn't.
Jerk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She compulsively checks her email for a quick-responder who will
surely have a perfectly free, simple answer. She hits refresh a dozen times.
Nothing. 6:31. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“The truth is, this is a barncat,” she reasons. Which means, you
don't grow attached to it. It is part of the scenery like the gravel in the
parking lot or the pansies hanging by the entrance. Only this barncat has been
attacked by something. Maybe another cat, or a coyote (she’s not certain
whether there actually are any coyotes around here or whether there would be
anything left of a cat that was attacked by one.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was raccoon. There were often juicy
trash bags left outside the kitchen that a raccoon would enjoy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She really needed to talk to the kitchen staff
about not leaving those bags out. They attract vermin. Another problem is the
last thing they need.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She thinks about what to do about the cat. Her mind wanders over
the possibilities. A scenario plays out in which one of the early birds is a
kindhearted veterinarian who offers to take a look. He cleans the cat's wounds
and gives Martina some ointment and some instructions. The cat gets better and
moves in with her. It becomes her devoted companion that curls up in her lap
while she reads books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knows this is
only fantasy and that healing this cat would be more work and money than she
can expend right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, she enjoys
the comfort of the idea. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In reality, this is a barncat. And you don't get attached to
such things. Plus, she has enough caretaking to do with her father and the golf
course. She doesn't need another thing to need her. The expense is no small
thing to consider either. She’s basically working for free right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can barely afford her student loans and
cell phone bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She certainly can't
afford vet bills. Especially for a barncat isn't hers. Not really. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still, she can't do nothing. It’s not right to let the thing
suffer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She remembers seeing her father hit a mouse over the head with a
shovel when a barncat got hold of it when she was a little girl. She'd cried
and cried. Her mother had tried to explain about suffering then. Shovel to the
head. That's what people sometimes did. It was more humane than leaving things
to suffer. She shudders, and disregards the idea. She doesn't have such a
brutal, close act within her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The cat has to be put down, though. It’s obviously suffering.
And it trusted her to take care of its suffering. So her options are to incur a
vet bill that she can’t pay, or to shoot it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She thinks about shooting it. Shooting it is fast. It’s less
close-range than the shovel. It’s quicker. With the shovel there’s the
possibility she lacks the fortitude for the requisite amount of force which
would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> be putting either of them
out of their suffering. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no such
risk with shooting. She's only shot a gun once and visibly startled every time
a shot went off around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what
other option is there? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She knows where the gun is. At 6:49 she goes and gets it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She loads the clip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
frets about the bullets jamming or missing the shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can barely handle the idea of firing
once, much less multiple times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
suffering is already just too much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She stalls another fifteen minutes by stroking the cat who gently
purrs its thanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She offers it creamers
from the mini fridge. It politely declines the offer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She strokes it. It. She is about to kill an it. She doesn't know
how to tell a male cat from female. She peeks at its butt and there is some
sort of cottonball-looking lump but she doesn’t know how to interpret the
cottonball. Somehow this makes it worse. Why would the universe entrust the
suffering of something to her when she can't even determine its gender? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Purrrrrrrrr. It looks up at her and she feel its suffering, its
plea for help. The cat is not purring because it is happy, it’s purring to calm
itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She raises the gun.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Tina?" calls her dad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her father takes the gun, tells her to wait outside. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just like that, he is her big, powerful dad again and she is just
a scared, little girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relief releases
her shoulders down and she clods outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She slumps down, crumpled in the gravel, no longer caring that her skirt
is white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She waits, ears straining not
to hear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A shot breaks through and she is bawling, bawling, bawling. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He comes out to her, leans over and kisses the top of her head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You don’t get attached to such things, T.” He reminds her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She suddenly desperately needs him to explain why she shouldn’t
get attached. Needs him to hold her while she bawls and he tells her it’ll all,
all be ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needs him to be her dad forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The sun is warming the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first golfers are a few holes in, swinging away, blissfully unaware
of the suffering going on in the background. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her anger is gone, evaporated with the
dew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, she is grateful. For once, her
father got there right on time</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.</span></div>Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-69861253952099526992012-06-29T21:21:00.001-06:002012-06-29T21:21:22.258-06:00Day 73I just don't want to write all of a sudden. I'm too scattered and too tired. I started tutoring three new people this week and understanding their minds is taking over my own. I've been reading books which is also taking up some space. I'm not even sure how I'll get my final assignment done for school because I just can't get myself to sit down and do anything but think about the things that will get these new students to form the connections they need to move to the next level. <br />
<br />
I could tell you about her doughy eyes and pigeon toes stacked on thick legs and a thicker torso. Or about his eyes that marble greens with something not from this earth. Or about a boy who confesses his garlic breath. I could tell you that I'm curious about each of their IQs but sometimes it's better not knowing. I can usually guess within a few points or so anyway with a bit of time. Green eyes has the highest but it's probably just around a hundred, maybe a little below. Hers might only be in the eighties. I always find that hard. Like, if I could move the couch cushions in her mind around, maybe I could muster up a few more points. <br />
<br />
It's usually best to be in the middle of the pack. You're less likely to be picked off by predators there. Too high or too low and you attract attention. Things are designed for the middle groups. Heights of door handles and sizes of seating. If you're too short, wearing those crazy junglegym contraptions on your feet to make you taller becomes normal. Which is fine in your twenties, thirties, even forties. But who in their seventies wants five inch heels? By then you've shrunk even shorter. So imagine if your eyes have weathered that storm find themselves door-handle height? <br />
<br />
See? I'm rambling. I've totally lost the point of this. The point of how this girl has these slightly flat face that makes a person wonder. Planted right in the middle of it all is a smile that erupts. <br />
<br />
In first grade or so, I finally figured out how to ride a bike. I don't remember my parents ever taking me outside to teach me. I just remember being at my cousins and using her too-small bike to get the comfort and practice to get it down on my own. I'd been lying for months if not years about not liking to ride a bike so that no one would find out that I really didn't know how. Then, a few short years after that lie abated, I found myself actually not riding a bike anymore after fracturing my skull falling off of mine, then moving to the "city" (suburbs,) where my parents would no longer allow me to ride one. This girl has no shame for her training wheels. Maybe that's the norm now. What do I know? At least kids wear helmets now.<br />
<br />
I also didn't know how to read a whole lot of words before first grade. I could read some things but reading wasn't really pushed until you went to <i>real </i>school. Then I was in the bluebird group or whatever the fasttrackers were. Now it's noticeable when a kid doesn't get it with the hammering of reading skills they've received in all-day kindergarten. It's concerning when, going into first grade, a kid can't read. That seems a bit over the top. That said, if you can't rhyme in first grade, that is concerning. Can't hop, also strange. Probably you are not in the middle of the pack. Probably people will notice. Hopefully the helpful sort gets to you before the predators try to pick you off. Hopefully.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-79406949522104855732012-06-24T22:28:00.000-06:002012-06-24T22:28:47.339-06:00Day 72<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The driveway is
long with a slight curve that complicates the downhill slant. Shannon twists and leans, peers over her left
shoulder, then untwists and contorts herself the other direction as she
reverses down the driveway. She brakes a
little too hard, and then starts down again.
She’s almost on the mulch that landscapes in the side of the driveway
with small, wiry bushes huddled in the mulch, but she’s not sure how to right
the car on its path. She overcorrects,
finds herself veering off the other edge of the driveway onto more mulch, tries
again, and manages to make it to the bottom.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She considers not
stopping. Looks and sees her path is
clear to leave now. But instead, she
pushes the button, and the window whirs down.
She flips open the wooden door to the hand-crafted, log cabin mailbox,
and pulls out the stack. She rifles
through: bills, junk mail, January’s <i>Better Homes and Gardens</i>, and a
letter. It’s the letter she wants. She pulls it out and shoves the rest back in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The home had been
a lucky find. She’d been walking the
suburban neighborhood with its wide, hilly, winding streets, and windmill subdivision
signs marking “Shady Glenhaven” and “Lilac View,” when she’d seen the owner, a
woman with long, dramatically white hair pulled back in a ponytail, struggling
to get a large suitcase into the back of her car. She rushed over, reached a hand under, and
helped hoist the black, Samsonite bag into the trunk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wow! This <i>is</i>
heavy! I can’t imagine getting this into the car alone. What’s in here, rocks?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Kind of,
actually. It’s lead crystal. I’m bringing it to a trade show in New
Haven.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Really? No way!
Is that what you do? Blow glass?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no, not at
all. I’m a collector and occasionally an
agent.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Shannon stayed a
while, friendly and happy to help (and to listen.) Jorja asked her to hold the door while she
brought out the rest of her luggage and chattered on about her two week trip
and all the hiking she had planned for when she <i>wasn’t</i> working. It had been
a stroke of pure luck and Shannon basked in it.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Normally, she
never stayed anywhere for more than a few hours. Long enough to feel what it was to be in the
space, take a nap and a shower, and wipe up after herself before letting herself
out and finding her next pseudo-home.
But this time she’d been at the door, seen the inside of the house, and,
between it and the glass, she could see herself inside. She wanted to feel the soul of this place,
try it on like a designer dress, allowing alterations major and minor alike to
swirl around her. Plus, she knew she
would have two whole weeks to come and go as she pleased and sleep and eat and
anything else she felt like. She hadn’t
really adequately surveyed the neighborhood yet, hadn’t gone through the usual
routine of finishing a leisurely walk, then taking a jog, then a bike ride to
check out the personality of the neighbors.
It didn’t appear to be full of retirees (home during the day, they make
stealth coming and going difficult and always ask too many, too-friendly
questions.) She saw enough brightly
colored Playco plastic gyms and trampolines to believe herself safe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Still, she’d waited
a full twenty-four hours and until after dark before returning. Just before arriving, she suddenly
panicked. She didn’t know how she’d get
in. What if there was no key under the
mat? No key in a pot by the front
door? She tried not to think about it,
and went ahead and checked. She flipped
the aged, black rubber mat up and the spare was right there, leaving it’s dust
imprint on the underside of the Welcome mat.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When she got
inside a house, the first place she always looked was the kitchen. She’d go straight through, noticing nothing
but turning right, left, straight down the hallway, left, and kitchen! She opened the refrigerator first, then the cabinets. It was the first feel you got for a
house. She’d seen it laying on the
otherwise empty, grey marble counter looking isolated and tempting. She ran her thumb over the thin, cream-colored,
international paper, savoring the idea of who this son of Jorja’s might be, who
Jorja herself might be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
Dear
Mom,<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
El Salvador is wet. Wetter than wet. The rainy season’s just getting started but
it’s already so wet that I have to wipe the floors off constantly. The moisture in the air condenses on the tile and
tries to mold in a matter of hours. Sheets
never dry and the thought of carpet is inconceivable. Plant life flourishes as do insects and I
wonder constantly about all the things in floorboards and ceiling tiles that I
share my living space with. I’m doing
well with my classes but don’t quite know what to do about Pedro. He comes to school early, leaves late, never
has any food, is always dirty, and is disruptive. He’s at least three grade levels behind the
other kids despite spending more time at school than any of them. I worry where he lives and who watches over
him. Pray for him, and for me. The slime might claim me if I get too tired
from Pedro’s antics and forget to wipe it clean often enough;)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
Huggles,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
Alex</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The letter really
clinched it. She was addicted to this
home now. She searched drawers for more
letters, scoured the house for them. She’d
been to beautiful, Bauhaus-style modern homes, and hundred-year-old places with
overstuffed chairs that could almost get her to give up her vagrant
lifestyle. Places with whole rooms
devoted to books and a mahogany, baby-grand piano with the lid propped at
exactly forty-five degrees so it resonates to fill a concert hall. She’d eaten pate and champagne out of dishes
worth more than her rusty, ’89 Corolla and swam in luxurious, deep green,
heated, lap pools with mosaics hand-laid into the floor. She’d contemplated her life as a
misunderstood artist, or flirted with the idea of sleeping with the next-door
neighbor after years of boring sex with an architect. She’d pick up a black and white photograph of
a dark-lashed infant and feel the satisfying weariness of motherhood for a
moment. She loved trying on these
peoples’ homes, their relationships and routines, but this house she had time
with. Time to search and think and sleep
and smell. Mint grew in the glass-covered
foyer and bougainvilleas and orchids bloomed in the mist that came on
automatically twice a day. She wondered
if Jorja read the letters from her son in that room. Decided she must have put the misting system
and the plants in so that she could drink a cup of tea and be with her son
while she read his letters. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She sat in her car
now, at the bottom of the driveway with a new translucent envelop in her hand
with the strange extra stamps and lettering.
She held the paper to her face, closed her eyes and breathed in the
foreignness of it, could swear she smelled freshly-baked tortilla and red and
yellow and green patterns flashed before her eyes. She’d already dismissed her day, planned to
go right back into the kitchen to make a pot of tea before sitting down to pore
over the progress with Pedro and the slimy floors in the foyer when her reverie
was interrupted with a knock at the window.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Startled, the
letter flies from her hands as her heart leaps to her throat and she turns to
see a man in his mid-fifties, salt and pepper (mostly salt,) hair leaning close
to her window. Her heart sinks low into
her bowels, suddenly leaden. And she knows,
with the weight of the heaviest of disappointments, <i>knows</i> she is caught.</div>Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-71507126260588259162012-06-23T06:46:00.001-06:002012-06-23T06:46:57.342-06:00Day 71She looks like she could come up out of deep water perfectly dry and standing extra tall with her waist-length hair and long skirts. Her figure is narrow and long and graceful. Her curves lean, slight against her slender body. And there is something so gentle and serene in the way she quietly drinks tea and listens; just listens. She is earthen and motherly in a way that makes you suspect she could be mother earth herself. It must have something to do with the way the soil mounds as though she whispered a secret to it and it rose up to listen. Her secret worked because plants flourish in those maternal mounds of hers. Lately, she has been considering ninja gardening. If she did it, she would sneak out under moonlight and plant seeds and invigorate soil in prime locations where folks working too many jobs to plant things wouldn't notice for weeks. Over time things would get greener, and plants would search for who had nurtured them, while property owners would tell the family story about the house on Pine Street that sprouted a garden overnight without the slightest help from them.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-26671073511025027982012-06-21T21:41:00.002-06:002012-06-21T21:41:57.911-06:00Day 70I'm thinking a lot about labor and delivery on account of I'm pregnant. Last time around I had the baby at home. I planned and read and there was much convincing of the husband and in the end we did it exactly the way I wanted. It fucking hurt. But it was the best way for us and I have zero regrets about the decision. <br />
<br />
So here I am, in the room where my son was born. Where I have the most vivid and wonderful memory of my life of golden sheets and golden afternoon sunlight and mac n cheese and this golden child that we simply could <i>not</i> stop staring at. And I'm in here with this memory and yet, I am afraid this time. Yet I can't come to terms with a hospital birth either. <br />
<br />
Most of the time, I think "I have time." And I don't worry about making a decision yet, but soon we need to decide. And I just don't know. I lean toward home birth but don't want to push the husband this time and he leans toward intervention and the hospital. The statistics (somewhat debatably) support home birth as long as I continue to be low risk and use a certified midwife, which we would. I don't think I can pull of a natural birth in a hospital. It seriously hurt, ya'll. I also think I'd be super fucking pissed at the nurses talking to me and touching me. Having two midwives where you know exactly who they'll be and how they'll handle you is much easier to handle than a host of shift-changing nurses and who-knows-which OB. Yet, I can't settle on this option either. It hurt. I kind of just want it to hurt less this time. Could the OB's office promise me that it will be the OB that I like and that she'll just be the person who does all the work with me? Or could the midwife just give me a lil shot of somethin and promise it won't hurt as bad. Ok, good. Cuz that would help.<br />
<br />
This is unrelated to creative writing. I'm just hoping emptying my mind about it a little will help me refocus on writing again. I'm working on a story I like about a woman who hangs out in peoples' houses when they're not home. If I get a good version, I'll post it here. Hopefully I do because I like the story concept.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-60742762335511503622012-06-18T18:40:00.000-06:002012-06-18T18:40:00.088-06:00Day 69She is a man's hankerchief, folded and stuffed into a jacket just so. <br />
Her frills a shock of color that accent him just so. <br />
With places in her fabric where her fingers have worried the weaving threadbare and worn straight through but that doesn't show. <br />
The torn pain of her children is woven in to seal pieces together but that doesn't show. <br />
And she wonders if she is just an accent and if it's worth keeping just that piece of herself beautiful, but she doesn't know.<br />
She wonders if she'll feel whole before she's discarded but she doesn't know.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-19067977406994029632012-06-17T23:15:00.001-06:002012-06-17T23:15:33.397-06:00Day 68<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">Under moonlight and against floodlights, we sprint across the
mottled browns and greens of trampled grass in a complicated game of tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tag got older when I wasn’t looking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, you want to be fast and win but also chased
and maybe caught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When chased, you don’t
know whether your pounding heart or feet or fists win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winning isn’t measured in Skeeball tickets
but pounding feet, or hearts, or others fists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">I hide behind a large, red, industrial, metal piece of a mostly-disassembled,
carnival ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The clunking of bolts, the
whir of drills against metal, and generators running, surround me as my heaving
breath slows and I scan the grounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t see him and my heart sinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until
now, I didn’t know how much I wanted him to chase me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hold my position and see him zip into view
as he catches Missy Arbuckle by the long, slender wrist, her delicate, silver
charm bracelet falling to the ground in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just like, that the whole game, the whole
world, stops to help Missy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">I stop the world for Missy too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was the first person I thought to ask to come to the fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom told me I could pick whatever friend I
wanted to bring and I immediately picked up the phone and called Missy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I excitedly told her we’d stay in a hotel,
and go to the parade first, and then the fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And do you know what that girl said?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She said, “Ok, but what do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i>
at the fair?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the hell kind of kid
doesn’t know what happens at the fair?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could see the haughty, blonde nose-in-the-air through the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like she could smell the livestock that, if
judged by her, would be granted awards solely on the basis of stench and likelihood
of dirtying her pristine pink-a-boo manicure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pink-a-boo is her signature color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I swear you can see her in a commercial with her perfect hands playing
peek-a-boo with the camera, free of any dirt under the nails that should need
covering with say, a darker color of polish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She said she’d have to ask her parents and call me back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then a further series of phone calls to find
out more information for her overbearing parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her parents always have to know everything.
They want to know how much money she'll need, who else will be going, which
hotel we'll be staying at, whether she should pack a bathing suit and on and
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">My mom doesn’t care what I’m doing when I’m at Missy’s, not that
she should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tells you something
you’d best do and what time you’d best do it by and she means you’d <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best</i> do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You do it and you’re fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t and expect bruises somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time I didn’t come home on time and lied
and told her I had a blister so it took me longer to walk home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was only ten minutes late, but late was
late so she used the belt on the bottoms of my feet right then and there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she did it again the next day for lying
about the blister.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">Once all the anxiety of phone calls was relieved, I was thrilled
about bringing Missy to the fair with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I couldn’t wait to drag her by her sweaty nervous hand to all the rides
and eat fistfuls of funnel cakes and then get on more rides until we wished we
hadn’t eaten so much powdered sugar and grease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">The milky skin of Missy’s brow is crinkled with worry as she
stands helpless while the team of kids creeps around on all fours patting the
ground with their palms looking for her charm bracelet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears well in her eyes and she tells us “I
just got a new clock charm from my grandma for my birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really tells time too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just put it on today.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if this were the news that would determine
whether we found her bracelet or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And it does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stands suddenly,
fist high in the air clutching silver, catching moonlight, glinting relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thank you,” she exhales dramatically. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">Disaster averted, her face erupts into glee as she literally
bounces. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wet from her blue eyes
sparkle their appreciation and I fear that a kiss is on his lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">Instead, his lips peel back in a sneer, “Time in!” he yells and
takes off after me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adrenaline surges as
I run like hot coals, (instead of flattened grass,) were under my feet. He is at
least two years older, with longer, faster legs, but I’m agile and crafty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I maneuver turns and twists to avoid capture
just as his foot slips in wet grass, (probably domestic beer,) and I make it to
base: a picnic table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stand triumphantly on the bench, fists
pumping above my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“HA!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">I want this fine looking guy to know I’m no spoiled little
girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t need his help and he can’t
catch me that easily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m worth chasing,
and I know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blow a strand of my
unruly red hair out of my face, it falls right back and I cross my arms and
stick my hip out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t you have
someone else to chase?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My translucent, strawberry
blonde eyebrow raised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">Mischievious, cocksure, his brown, perfectly-arced eyebrow
raises in answer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks me over, “Nope.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">A straight, white-toothed, triumphant grin appears on his face
and he says, “You have cotton candy in your hair.” And his winning again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">“So?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say, about to sprint
off, not sure I won’t be caught this time when Missy walks up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where’s your
mom?” she whines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">I roll my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t be such a baby.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">“What time is it?” she frowns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t know, look at the charm on your bracelet.” My lip curls
up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Holy cow!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s twelve thirty!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looks at her clock then up at the moon
directly overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My parents are gonna
kill me.” She frets, her voice a whine of blue-ribbon honesty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who cares?” I shrug turning my body toward her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How would they even find out anyway?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s behind me now as I glare at her not to
ruin my moment with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slides an
athletic, lanky arm around my underfed middle and it somehow grabs my heart and
stops it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes go wide with the
message and Missy shrugs, nods, and runs off to restart the game with the few
remaining kids who haven’t wandered home yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a good athlete: strong,
fast, but lacking the scrappiness of street kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her sneakers will get some more use
tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He steers me away and we’re walking
I-don’t-care-where, his arm tightly in place the whole time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I concentrate on matching the rhythm of his
steps, not wanting him to let go, but then it starts to feel like a three-legged
race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m about to loose myself from his
grip but then we arrive at the baseball field bleachers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earlier, the bleachers viewed a tented-arena
with dirt floors, now back to be the baseball diamond but scuffed with foot and
hoof-prints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I twirl out of his embrace but
he does not let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, his hand
slides down my arm and catches my hand at the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look him right in the eye, daring him to do
something as my heart pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pulls
me down on the bench and right away kisses me hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His teeth click against mine and I taste a
bit of my blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pull back, stand up
and he pulls me back down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where do you think you’re
going?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe to find someone who can kiss
right.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say, thinking of going back to
Missy and tag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He pulls me back down, “Oh yeah?”
and he does it again only this time our teeth don’t clink and I’m running out
of bravado and melting into anxious lust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I want it to never stop and I want to run back to the game of tag and I
want Missy to come whining about going home and I want to keep kissing, keep
kissing, kissing, kissing, when a loud crash interrupts every thought for as
far as I can imagine and a man growls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Howls, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that escalates
to a yell, then a scream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we’re up
and running to see and his feet pound further and further ahead of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I’m standing, straining my eyes
not to see him bent over the piece of Tilt-the-World that I hid behind watching
a glinting bracelet and his father under that thick, heavy metal with bolts as
thick as my waist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The floodlights
announce the abrupt silence of the drills and it seems later, so much later
than it did a moment ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I try not
to notice him crying or the screaming or the kids and me and Missy standing
there wide-eyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the men appear and
they all heave and pick up the thick piece of metal with the red and blue
lights still attached but his father’s hurt, really hurt and I don’t know what
to say or do and Missy’s wide eyes look down at her clock charm and I want to
hit her, punch her hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I just
stand there the same as they all do and stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We stare until red flashing lights, and blue police lights and pen
lights arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we’re flooded with
questions:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did we see it? And what did
we see?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And why were we still there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">And the police want to call someone’s parents so honest, lily-white
Missy Arbuckle tells them her parents’ number and they call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my mom told me to wait here and she’d be
back to take us to the hotel so two hours later when Missy’s parents want to
take me home with them, I don’t know what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best</i>
I do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">I refuse to go with Missy and her parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wait at the police station hoping that will
help when my mom finds me somewhere other than where she left me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m angry at Missy for telling the police
and putting me in this position and for how her life is and how I know we won’t
be friends anymore, not the same anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I clench my fists and hold my scrawny, mighty, scrappy muscles in
place that hold down weakness and think “good riddance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">When I wake up in the hotel the next evening, cotton candy still
in my hair, my teeth with a fuzzy layer, my feet hurt, my fists hurt, and still
I want to play tag and eat cotton candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I wonder what’s wrong with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I wonder about winning at tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I almost forget to wonder what his name was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-18377249061729568572012-06-14T20:10:00.001-06:002012-06-14T20:10:06.047-06:00Day 67Ivan imagines himself bright and bold. If you peel back the layers of him that are putty and pasty and would do well to fill nail holes in drywall, like toothpaste, behind all that, his core would be bright orange contrasting shapes against a bright blue background. In this reality, people would call him Ivo as he strolled confidently up to them, a manhattan held leisurely, a hearty laugh at the ready. <br />
<br />
But he is Ivan. Ivan who is pale, pasty white. Ivan who has never managed to so much as gain the story of a scar he got as a kid. Ivan, who checks his messages and never finds anything beyond a reminder for a doctor's appointment or a reminder from his mother that they're having tea for her birthday on Sunday afternoon and don't be late. He's never late. It should make him angry that she says to be on time when he's never late. It should make him angry that he has no where else to be so will not forget about their plans. It should make him angry that he doesn't have anyone besides his cat to greet him when he gets home at forty. But he's too resigned to get angry.<br />
<br />
He unlocks the door to the same one bedroom apartment he's rented the last 15 years and Anne Bancroft, his pristing white cat, rubbing her face against his leg as he walks in. She delicately walks toward the cupboard with the class of someone who knows she's about to get her due. Anne with her private ways of slinking off when she tipped something over, never letting something crass taint her. Absently, he reaches down and slinks a hand along her sleak, trim side and opens the refrigerator. Empty except for a half can of tuna, a three week old half bottle of white wine, a carton of eggs, and a door full of condiments, he pulls out the tuna and gets a half cup of dry food from the cupboard to mix for her. He sets it down, and she saunters over to eat. He fries an egg, gets out the last of the saltines, mixes up a concoction of mustard, ketchup, mayonaise, and the fried egg, then uses the saltines to scoop it up and eat it. <br />
<br />
When he was a child, the smells of perogies, cabbage, and bacon wafted into his bedroom. His mother was always cooking or baking something for them. Now, she lives in a bedroom at an assisted living facility and hasn't baked in years. <br />
<br />
Ivan's not quite sure whether he's more embarassed about putting his mother in a home, or that he is more attached to Anne Bancroft, a <em>cat </em>than his own mother. But his own mother has never touched his cheek, kissed him sweetly, and helped him fall asleep. Not that he'd want her to now. But he would want the real Anne Bancroft in his bed. He'd want to hold her and spoon against her smooth back, run his finger along her satin covered hip and make her laugh. What he wouldn't give to make a classy woman laugh with him on a Saturday night. <br />
<br />
This is what he thinks of as he flips through the channels, waiting for <em>Great Expectations</em> to come on. Tomorrow he can visit his mother, but today he kicks back in his recliner with Anne in his lap, and Anne on his TV. He looks at his feet ahead of him, and thinks "they're perfectly good feet." They have no caluses, his nails are well cared for, there are no blisters, they have a slight arch, his toes have no hair. He's modeled the after picture for a nail fungus remedy. His feet have been in photos with loafers and slippers, but never atheletic wear. Those jobs are reserved for models whose bodies are less, sinewy, faces more chiseled. He's more of the gaunt, scientist looking type. Just with smooth, slender feet. Sometimes he has nightmares that his toes are hairy and when he tries to shave the hair off, he peels back layers upon layers of skin instead of hair and underneath each layer is more hair and more skin. He shivers awake, and goes back to snuggling Anne, watching Anne.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-40067488827575846432012-06-11T22:08:00.001-06:002012-06-11T22:08:47.486-06:00Day 66What's in a carnival past the cotton candy and the funnel cakes? The jenky rides you just don't worry about and the lightning you hope won't ruin your night? What's beyond the bands past their primes and local girls in blue ribbons parading themselves in convertibles? After tallboys have been drunk and the rides are disassembled, what happens then?<br />
<br />
I invited Missy to come to the fair with us. We were going back to Debuque where I'd lived before moving to Des Moines and becoming friends with Missy. My mom told me I could invite a friend so I called her up. She'd never been, wanted to know what you do there and then had to ask her parents. What the hell kind of kid doesn't know what happens at the fair? Then a further series of phone calls to find out more information for her snotty parents.<br />
<br />
Missy's cool but her parents always have to know everything. They want to know how much money she'll need, who else will be going, which hotel we'll be staying at, whether she should pack a bathing suit and on and on. Like I said, she's cool, but she's going to have to learn to stand up to them. It's weird because they won't do anything anyway. They'll just say "I'm disappointed in you." Who gives a shit?<br />
<br />
My mom leaves me lists on summer days and I best get all the things on that list done. When she gets home, my clothes are put away, the dishes are done/dried/put away, there's nothing out of place. Missy's mom tries to leave her lists but Missy forgets and then they fight and Missy does the things on the list because her mom guilts her into it. If my list isn't done, it's hard to know how bad it'll be. Depends on my mom's mood. Sometimes she passes out and doesn't notice or messes up the parts of the list I did do. Other times I'll avoid seeing anyone for days because I'll be sore from a whooping.<br />
<br />
After many calls back and forth, Missy is packed and ready to go. She walks her backpack over to my house and get in the car to drive the three hours to Debuque. Missy clicks her seatbelt into place and winces at the country music. She knows better than to ask for a change though. In her parent's car, they listen to what she wants, but she's got a good idea how things work around here and suffers in silence.<br />
<br />
As we get closer the sun begins to set in the broad, flat skyline and we hunker down and talk strategy for meeting boys: what we've brought to wear, how she'll do our makeup and I'll do our hair. We get to the hotel and prepare for a whole new scene of boys. <br />
<br />
The fair is a flop and we're back at the hotel in no time. My mom drops us off then goes wherever she goes and Missy and I stay up half the night talking. We laugh forever about the out of date stone washed jeans and the drunks. She asks about a boy and I tell her his story. I make it up on the spot but Missy's no lie detector so she doesn't notice when I tell her how I lost my virginity to him. I tell her about how I walked into his room and he was naked and PING his dick popped up and I fucked him right then and there. Her mouth gapes. She says she hopes it's <em>special</em> when she does it and can't believe I did that. She's so freakin pure all the time. So I take it a little further.<br />
<br />
Tell her about how his dad was there too except how I didn't know it. How he cornered me later and how I almost had sex with him. I can tell she's uncomfortable so I zing her right then with how that's who my mom's out with right now. She wants to call her parents but I won't let her. She falls asleep in the bed next to me, stiff and afraid, and I roll over satisfied with the way I've educated her.<br />
<br />
After that, I'm allowed at Missy's but she's not allowed at my house. I don't even bother to shame her for telling her parents. I just go back to my usual friends whose parents don't notice what we do after school.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-46637434031024650092012-06-11T20:16:00.003-06:002012-06-11T20:16:19.663-06:00Journal 5I've fallen off this blog way worse than I intended. I've still mostly posted daily but there's been some stuff going on in my personal life, plus grad school, plus pregnancy. Sorry for the vague comment. I hate that and am normally a pretty open book but what's going on isn't my story to tell so I'll just say that it's hard and it hurts to watch and not be able to help. It takes up a lot of energy and I don't have that much to spare so it's impacted the frequency of my writing as well as my ability to focus on a story and see it through. <br />
<br />
Grad school is confusing. I was so excited to start it and loved the readings and the assignments. But I feel like I'm losing a part of my writing style in trying for the grades I want. I'm ok with it for now but we'll see. The professor wants more specific detail and so I'm spending a lot of time trying to paint a more complete picture of a scene which seems like really good practice. But as I'm reading other people's works, I don't feel like every scene contains this type of detail. So then I start to lose myself in questioning how to do it "right." That and I've been annoyed that I can't get any of the professors to actually individualize a course. The program is supposed to be individualized and the feedback is very detailed and helpful and I'm doing fine. I just really wanted to focus on working and reworking and reworking a piece since all I've ever done is work on something for a few days and then put it aside, never to revisit it again. It seems like editing and redoing a story should be pretty standard but it's not. The expectation is that you do that yourself and get drafts in two weeks early if you want feedback (which I'm pretty much incapable of doing.) So I've been struggling with whether the program will be a good fit for me or not. I tried to make a case for changing the course with two different professors to exclude some of the more academic writing in favor of including more than one draft of a story but both seemed to get in a snit about it and turned me down flat. It feels like they think I'm trying to get out of the work of writing which just irks me and reminds me that something is lost in online communications at times. At others, a certain intimacy is gained. I share details on blogs and emails that I'd likely not tell in person.<br />
<br />
So here's where I'm at. I'm going to go easy on myself a little. You know, on account of I'm pregnant and got some shits going on. I'm not going to worry if I don't post every single day but I'll really try to. Maybe I'll embrace my less detailed, more free form writing here and so there's a place where I don't have to worry about grades. In the first thirty or so posts on this blog, I developed some ideas I still really like. I'm hoping to do that again in the next few weeks. So here's to hoping.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-23728778555003790672012-06-10T21:15:00.001-06:002012-06-10T21:15:25.217-06:00Day 65<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Steve stumbles against Meyer’s tank like, unsteady weight
as they step out into the cool, night air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even in August, the temperature dips low enough at night to require a
jacket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they have the headiness of
hours of beer drinking and cajoling to keep them warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s Steve’s birthday but he’s nowhere near the drunkest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The five of them should have taken the bus
home hours ago, but now it’s too late to put their bikes on the bus rack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After dark, you have to leave your bike or
ride it home, the buses don’t allow them on the racks after sunset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The moon has risen, giant and yellow, between
two mountain peaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The effect is stage like,
making the mountains a silhouetted cardboard back drop, prom stars hung in the
sky for ambiance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Add together the sky
and the beer and the fun and the friends: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and they are invincible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So you guys want to leave our bikes here and take the
bus or ride home?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s go to the Moose when we get to Frisco.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meyers slurs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We have to get there first, dumbass.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chill out,
man.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike tries to quiet his friends
whose hearing abilities seem to have stayed in the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I just got this bike from the shop where my buddy works.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got me a pro form deal so it only cost
me $2000 but it’s worth $5000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No way am
I leaving it for some slumming snowboarder to steal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather than simply remove the front wheel and
chain it with the rest of the bike, he’s spent the evening dragging it around
the bar and now gestures with it making his case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Decision made, the group heads across Copper Mountain’s
newly paved sidewalks passing dark-wooded Bavarian awnings and giant Adirondack
chairs, toward the bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The five mount
their bikes, some taking multiple starts to right themselves and their balance
before heading to the stoplight at the top of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t stop at the wide, six lane
intersection, but bike away from street and highway lights to the dark, wooded
trail ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who else has a headlight?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steve asks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who
else has a headlight?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meyers mocks in a
high-pitched voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Steve
turns his on and tries to lead the way, but Meyers beats him to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anyone else has a light, they’re quiet
about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a full moon to help
light most of the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path from
Copper Mountain to Frisco is familiar, bike only, paved, downhill, and mostly
straight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meyers’ stout, shaven legs pedal like he’s got something
to prove. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steve is right behind
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steve has a lanky body that may be
the same in mass as Meyers’ but stretched out over an extra foot or so of
height.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hair is thinning and
receding as if to reveal the trick aging is playing on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He keeps it under a hat almost all the time,
even in front of his wife, to remain in his own generation in the eyes of
onlookers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day his daughter’s
friends will say “your dad’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Steve measures his personality out like an
accountant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He calculates and metes out his
responses, swirling statistics and possible phrasing around his mind before
spitting out a comment like a receipt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He never speaks loudly or smiles but is intelligent and interesting in
the factoids he can produce on nearly any topic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rarely stays out past eleven or drinks
more than two or three beers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s
his birthday and his wife and daughter are out of town and Meyers came by early
in the day and convinced him of his duty to celebrate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted that duty was mainly to Meyers who is
nearly always celebrating something, but still, it had been good to have a
friend surprise him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d started the day the usual way with no young man's delusions
about birthdays. He emptied the dishwasher and let the dog out. Then he fried
two eggs, made toast, and ate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walked
his black lab on an old dirt mining trail in the pine forest near his home.
Along the walk, he thought about the beetle kill, what plans would best protect
homes and water sources, and uses for the wood. When he arrived home, he had a
text from Meyers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Beers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me
correct that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bike to Copper at 4.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a set of instructions more than an invitation
which he resisted at first out of the habit of needing to follow a plan, but
then thought “Why not?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before he knew it, it was 12:30 am and he was speeding
down the trail after Meyers, impervious to the night, suddenly anxious to pass
Meyers, competitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pedaled faster,
but no Meyers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Steve is focused now, determined to beat Meyers, to pedal
faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His legs pump and the air whirrs
around him, wheels buzz quietly and he breathes steadily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still no Meyers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He speeds on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Suddenly,
the air is knocked out of him as he thumps into something soft and fetid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dazed, it takes quite a few moments to
reorient himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels sticks and
smells pine needles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels around and
finds himself on his back on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He spits fur out of his mouth, reaches up a hand to pick at more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has fur in his mouth and his nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He takes stock of his body, arms, legs,
trunk, feet, hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hands are
scuffed but nothing else seems injured so he stands up, dusts himself off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even after sneezing and spitting some more,
the tickle of the fur continues to irritate him and the smell of something like
oak, urine, and the zoo seems permanently inside his nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He can’t believe Meyers is going to beat him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can’t believe he’s hit a bear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And “oh my god, what happened to my bike?” he
wonders, afraid to find the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-67909361054295935122012-06-08T14:22:00.000-06:002012-06-10T15:57:36.159-06:00Day 64His mousy brown hair is thinning and receding even though he's still in his early thirties. He keeps it short and usually has a baseball hat or beanie to keep him with his own generation, so you don't see age trying to steal him for the future.<br />
<br />
This will be his thirty third birthday which seems significant even though really it's just another day. He has no young man's delusions about birthdays. He'll still have to empty the dishdrainer and plan his own day. Obligations have taken over the patches of his head that his hair left vacant over the last few years. <br />
<br />
He lives his morning the usual way. He walks his black lab on a dirt trail lined with pine near his home. Along the walk, he thinks about the beetle kill, what plans would best protect homes and water sources, and uses for the wood. Statistics swirl in his mind as he picks out ones that fit his ideas, like his wife might choose an outfit. <br />
<br />
She's out of town so he has the evening to himself. He's planned to take a seven mile bike ride from Frisco to Copper with a group of guys he knows from his days as a ski instructor. They eat in Copper, then either ride back or take the bus depending on how many beers they have, but probably they'll take the bus. <br />
<br />Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-30082375705265024862012-06-07T20:48:00.000-06:002012-06-07T20:48:10.605-06:00Day 63People ask me what it's like to pick up cons straight outa prison, and I tell 'em: it's a livin. They got someplace they gotta go, and I gotta pay the bills. So I take 'em.<br />
<br />
Most of 'em just want to smell some fresh air but get freaked out when things is too open. Like if you ever saw a cat just got outa the pound and you let it outa its carrier in your house, it cowers and don't like it. Sometimes runs right back in even though it's been hollerin to get out the whole ride home. Cons is like that.<br />
<br />
Low Jack was the first con I ever picked up. He just shaved for the trip into town and even though he didn't get out much, he had that dark skin, like when somebody puts a lotta cream in their coffee and you could see he'd shaved because the skin was so light. He said thank you real quiet when I let him off at the transfer station. I wondered for a long time whether he made it on the outs but I dunno.<br />
<br />
Dino was gruff and had a scar in the corner of his mouth that looked like he'd got caught on a fish hook. Maybe he did.<br />
<br />
Stanley was a old man and looked real sad and lost. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I get names, sometimes I make 'em up. <br />
<br />
Brandy used ride my route to visit Guth once a month. Never had the guts to ask her about conjugals but she sure got dolled up like something was gonna happen. She was a hair dresser and musta had a hundred ways to fix herself for visits. Always wondered when he'd get out and whether I'd be able to tell it was him, but I never did. She just stopped comin after bout a year and half of it. For all I know he was Stanley. But I don't think so.<br />
<br />
Charlotta drags four kids on the bus with her. Grabs whatever skinny freckled arm is right there and drags 'em along. Those kids is skinny but you can tell they're scrappy by the way they look her right in the eye when she pulls 'em close and says "you mind, y'hear?" 'cept the youngest. That one don't look no one in the eye or fight or nothin. I wish she'd leave that one with a friend or somethin because she just looks like she'll shatter if she don't get a good daddy hug soon. <br />
<br />
Terrel is mentally retarded. Takes a few minutes ta figure it out but when he pulls the stop string the fourth time, I figure him for slow. When we get to the transfer station, I walk him to the place he needs to wait for his next bus. <br />
<br />
Little J is all gold shine and swagger like he's going to the strip club on the bus. Somehow I don't think this is his first time. Why he didn't get a taxi or a friend makes me scared to see what happens when he gets off the bus. Like maybe his chickens is coming home and I don't want to be there if that happens. But nothin happens. <br />
<br />
Sometime folks ask me if I'm scareda the cons but that always seemed silly to me. They come out lookin tough and lost at the same time. Or tougher but you know they don't know which way's up and if you just give 'em someplace safe to cower till they're ready, they'll come out eventually. It'll be a while before mischief sniffs them out. At least 24 hours anyway.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-14052366935662477722012-06-06T21:26:00.001-06:002012-06-06T21:26:18.865-06:00Day 62The squares are set up<br />
and knocked down in the gym<br />
records skip<br />
to my lou<br />
and I extend a nervous palm<br />
sweat builds <br />
anxiety of rumors<br />
yucky sweat and soup smells<br />
and fault<br />
somehow you know it's your fault<br />
just the partner I wanted<br />
or didn'tKarin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-84098375995595773652012-06-04T21:45:00.000-06:002012-06-04T21:45:02.360-06:00Day 61Life happens in the basement in this house. It is where you can wear pajamas and put your feet on the gold and orange plaid couch while watching TV and eating popcorn. If a kernel drops, no biggie, the carpet's black and red indoor/outdoor of the variety that can soak up an entire soda, burp, and be no worse for the wear. <br />
<br />
A little boy who has planned his strategy for requesting a paper route launches into his proposal to his dad on that couch. He tells his dad how much money he will make, what time he will need to get up in the morning, how he will need to collect in the evenings. His dad swirls a tumbler of something strong, ice clinking in the glass as he considers his answer. He tells him something about responsibility and confidence and lets him get the route. Months later, they fight about this same route in this same place. Voices rise so loud that no clinking can be heard, just angry whiskey breath, stomping stairs, and slamming doors. Neighbors close their windows, not wanting to get involved, and watch the youngest to make sure everyone's ok. She is proud of the yelling that is so loud people hear across fences and yards. There is passion in it and honesty and strength in not being afraid.<br />
<br />
This is the place where she colors construction paper hearts with markers and uses double sided tape to pretend her ears are pierced. It is where she skips and jumps rope and her dad tells her "I'm watching the news," and "not in front of the TV," when she cartwheels end to end four in a row across the entire floor. Where she waves a hair ribbon pretending she's Mary Lou Retton and stands on a pedestal of her own designing to put on entertainment shows that her parents clap for. Her mother rarely comes into the basement, but when she does, she is a captive audience. The girl can stand behind the couch and is at just the right level to "do" her hair. She combs it and puts mismatched plastic barrettes all over her head and her mom thanks her for how beautiful she looks.<br />
<br />
The same voice rises and throws itself against door jams and windows in a fury over what have you and the household shrinks and hides. The cats know they could be thrown down the stairs at any moment and the dog is the only one who is safe. The garage door slams and someone has gone for a walk but neither the boy nor the girl come out of their rooms to see who has gone and who is left. <br />
<br />
<br />Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-86340498371890849712012-06-03T21:55:00.001-06:002012-06-03T21:55:29.954-06:00Day 60<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We
sit in a tiny room that likely used to be a storage closet in a converted
former dentist’s office. It’s a small,
aging, wooden, two-story building. There’s
something hollow and vaguely impermanent feeling about the school. It’s as though the wood in the floors is thin
enough that with a strong enough kick and a heavy enough work boot, you could
kick a hole right through the floor. My
classroom is upstairs near the emergency exit that the kids leave through on
the way to PE. The PE teacher often
pokes his head in to say hello on his way out to the vans to take the kids to
play basketball or whatever it is they’re currently doing. He does not interrupt though when I am
working with Damien and Dion since they’re Little-Kids and more easily
distractible. If I were working with
Big-Kids, he’d probably lean in and heckle them with friendly eyes which would
both embarrass and flatter them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Damien
and Dion rush in, excited for their time away from the larger group of
kids. Damien and Dion come to me for
reading every other day. At eight,
neither has mastered any basic letter-sound relationships that many
preschoolers have. They chatter away
and I half-listen, waiting for the thunder of teenaged feet on an insubstantial
floor to subside before beginning our lesson.
Their excitement is contagious but as the last of the foot traffic lets
up, Damien and Dion settle in. They want
to learn. They haven’t yet learned to be
ashamed of the fact that they cannot read the word “cat,” yet. Instead, they are hopeful. They are desperate for adult attention: like toddlers in their need. My room consists
of four wooden desks that are at least fifteen or twenty years old. They are the slanted wooden variety that have
seats attached, with a metal compartment under the wooden top to store
books. They’re the same kind I peeled my
thighs from on September days in elementary school. The compartments are empty and the metal is a
good surface for banging out a rhythm with a pen and the heel of an older boy’s
hand. Damien spindles his long, skinny,
ashy knees into the desk and Dion follows.
They sit up on their knees, changing positions frequently. I get out the flashcards we always start with
and we begin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
hold up a card then another and another, and in unison they say “A, ah,
apple. B, buh, ball. C, kuh, car.”
We go through the alphabet, then I mix the letters up and we go through
it again, out of order. The vowels give
them some trouble so we go through those again.
“E, eh, egg.”</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
want to make them eggs, but I don’t know if there are enough. Cereal doesn’t get you through much of the
morning, and I want the boys to have a good morning at school. School should be a bigger priority than it
can be for these boys. My values vie for
position in the chaos of all their needs.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
house sits in the suburbs south of Saint Louis.
Built in the 80s there are ranch style homes and well-dressed teenagers
walk to school on crackfree sidewalks. I
sit in the dark of the house, ticking off the minutes, watching bad tv, eating
junk, thinking of the day and preparations.
Mentally I go through what needs to be done: preheat the oven, make up a
tray of toast, a tray of bacon, get mismatched bowls and spoons out for cereal,
set the table. Then I move farther into
my day and what I need to do for classes: copies, grading, mentally remembering
what lessons I’ll be teaching. I realize
I’m ahead of myself, stop, and look around the spacious kitchen with the
Formica island in the middle and the eighties style oak cabinets, the burnt
orange stove and matching refrigerator.
I get out the bread and prepare the tray. Whatever I can get done now will help once
the boys are up. Once they’re up, it
will be GO-time. I’m excited to wake the
boys. I never work in the little kid’s
house and can’t wait to see them in their jammies, excited surprise in their
faces to see me instead of their regular staff.
4:45 am. Time to do a bed check.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
am in the basement where all the boys are sleeping in one of two rooms. The basement’s dingy in a way that is
difficult to pinpoint. The paint is new
but the furniture’s second hand. The
toys are too orderly. There’s tape on
the floor that delineates staff-only areas like the desk that sits facing what
would otherwise be a family room vs. everywhere else. It’s still dark so I bring the
flashlight. The smell of moldy boy-sweat
vaguely settles in the ground. I start
with Andrew. I punch the power button
with my thumb before I go through the already open door, gradually introducing light
to the room. Andrew’s crumpled up in his
wood-framed twin and I can’t see his face, but his hair will do fine in
confirming he’s there. Damien’s bed is
in the middle and he has tossed his blankets to the floor and lies mouth open,
snoring lightly, on his back with limbs thrown out to the four winds. Dion is sleeping on his stomach and the bit
of his face that is visible looks peaceful and serene. A mother would be tempted to lean over and
kiss his perfectly smooth caramel cheek, but wouldn’t want to disturb him. Stephen has twisted himself up and I have to
pry a little to be sure there’s really a body in the bed. There is and thankfully he doesn’t wake, so I
go back to the desk and tick off the boxes on the bed check grid for this
fifteen minutes until I have to do it again in another fifteen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
At the school, I
pull kids out of class and try intensive interventions to get them closer to
grade level in reading, writing, and math.
This is what I was trained to do.
What I was born to do. But it
doesn’t pay much and unlike other teaching jobs, you are not off in the summer
and so the possibility of an extra summer job to help pay off college loans
does not exist. Instead, I sometimes
pick up half of an overnight here or there to help pay the bills. It helps develop relationships with the boys
and with the staff that work with them in the houses. Otherwise, there’s a school staff setup and a
home staff setup and if they don’t communicate well, it impacts the therapeutic
value of being a place like this. It
seems unjust that any child should end up in a place like this, so it seems a
duty of the staff to be sure it’s worthwhile for the kids. I usually work at Yarrow or Estes, the houses
for the older boys. I take them for
hikes <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8777955788888105314" name="_GoBack"></a>or running and spice up their meals with things I
find in cupboards long forgotten: cumin, sage, curry. The little kids are another story. I’m less comfortable with them, more hurt by
their stories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Damien’s
story is particularly horrible. It takes
me multiple sessions to read his entire file.
His skull was fractured in three places when he was just thirteen months
old. He has been sexually abused by so
many family members, I have not committed the number or the names to
memory. He has sexually abused his own
cousins. After all, that’s what a
relationship is. His parents’ rights
have been terminated which means he is alone in the world at the ripe age of
eight. When I was eight, I got the
chicken pox and my mom cried that I would have to miss the school Valentine’s
Day party. She bought me a pound puppy
and I scratched away at home in front of cartoons, hugging my new-smelling soft
brown spotted comfort. Damien has no mom
or dad to feel bad for him for the things that hurt a child. He has a rotating series of staff who look
out for him and give him “side hugs” when he needs attention. It’s one thing to be on your own at fourteen
and fifteen, it’s another at eight. At
eight, you should still be able to crawl in with your parents and snuggle on a
Saturday morning. Not get bullshit “side
hugs,” and spend your illnesses on a cot in the lunchroom because there’s no
one at the house to take care of you. It
helps to keep his skull fracture in mind when I’m frustrated by the slow pace
of our reading sessions. He<i> is</i> learning so I focus on that and
enthusiastically encourage him at every success. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Dion
and Damien have fallen into a routine in the classroom. They come in and chat for a few minutes, then
get to work. They go through the letter
flash cards. Then we work on hearing
syllables in words by karate chopping them in the air. Da-mi-en.
Chop, chop, chop! Damien chops
and kicks his spidery limbs out, nearly spastically. He has big pink gums and even bigger,
mismatched teeth. He often takes his
glasses off to rub his eyes when he’s getting tired from trying so hard,
revealing, large, pooling dark eyes rimmed with thick, dark, curled
lashes. He has a Stevie Wonder head-tilt
when he smiles that makes him look a bit off.
He’s been smiling often lately as he and Dion have started being able to
read words. Whole real words in
books! They’re getting competitive now
and I can feel something maternal in the air.
Their competition for the correct answer is becoming a sibling
rivalry. I can feel instinct kicking in
and I’m not always sure what to do with it. I know I am their teacher. I know they need to learn to read and that
the success I’m having with them means I’m the best person to be doing it. But…
the desire to nurture them is strong when they burst through the door in
the morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
That
instinct is strong now as I check the time, 5:59. The time to wake them creeps closer and I do
my last bed check before wakeups start at 6:15. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
feel that itchy, twitchy feeling of having been awake most of the night. It’s not a tired feeling. It’s an adrenal-fueled state that tricks you
into eating more than you need and talking more than you want. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
boys are, indeed, excited to see me and they follow most directions. Eager to please, they get dressed, take turns
going to the bathroom, keep safe ratios in their rooms without being reminded,
and make their beds without too many promptings. We go upstairs and have breakfast when the
excitement and change in routine begins to show. Dion gets angry when he spills his orange
juice. The boys try to encourage him,
but he doesn’t do well with change. He
asks to go spend time alone in the timeout room and I agree. He leaves the spilled juice and speedwalks
down the pictureless hallway to the back room.
If a family lived here, this would be a bedroom. As it is, the room is completely bare. Painted beige, wood closet doors removed,
tile floors scuffed. We listen to Dion
screaming and yelling and kicking the wall.
He seems to be working himself up instead of calming himself down. So, since the boys are cooperating and eating
ok, I tell them I’ll be right back and walk down the beige carpeted hallway to
check on Dion. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Before
he’s seen me, he’s heard me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“FUCK YOU.”
He screams. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
say nothing, and turn to go back down the hallway and try to let his rage peter
out, rather than engage in a power struggle, but he follows after me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He
pushes my leg “FUCK YOU.” He tilts his
chin down as he repeats it, his eyebrows scrunched together in anger neither of
us fully understand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Dion,
why don’t you use one of your coping skills so you can keep having a good
morning, ok?” I say calmly. It’s too late, and I’ve engaged him now. His anger is fueled. Whatever trauma this relates to is about to
play out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I care about you
and want to see you have a good morning, Dion.
Do you think it will help if we try to call Angela?” I ask.
I’m tired and it’s all I can think of.
His therapist will probably not appreciate the interruption but I’m the
only staff for at least another 30 minutes and there are four other boys I need
to keep calm. I do not want to end up in
a restraint.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He
balls up his fists and I see his silver fillings shine as he literally growls,
about to hit me. I head back toward the
timeout room but he doesn’t follow. He
tips over a chair where the other boys are still finishing up breakfast and I
tell him I’m going to take him to the timeout room so he can be safe. I begin semi forcibly escorting him back to
the room. I can tell where this is
leading and that the audience of his peers will only make things worse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
the timeout room, a restraint ensues.
The boys, who are confused about when they are boys and when they are
too-young, parentless men, continue to creep down the hall to check on me and
make sure I’m ok. Damien begins checking
often and yelling at Dion. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You better leave
her alone, or I’m gonna kick your booty!”
Damien yells.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Go back with the
other boys, please Damien. I’m
fine. Trust me to handle this, please.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Thankfully, Dion’s
emotions have run their course and he begins to calm down now just as his
therapist is returning the page. I have
the boys pass the phone around waiting for the time when Dion is ready to talk
to her. She is the therapist for most of
the boys in this group. As Dion leaves
the room to clean up his juice and talk to his therapist, Damien comes in. Damien pushes Dion and I give him a
disapproving look. A maniacal smile
spreads and he says “What bitch?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
heart sinks. Dion’s restraint has set
him off and he’s reacting. He wants the
power so he can fix it, or at least be in control. Dion is barely out the door, guilty,
self-loathing tears coming down his face as I tell the boys in a voice that
absolutely means business, “Stay out of here and talk to Angela. I’ll be out of here as soon as I can.” I barely finish before Damien punches me in
the crotch. He’s in the time out room
now and I try not to engage him, turning my body so that we are not face to
face. I try not to be threatening in any
way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
know what happened with Dion really upset you, Damien, but everyone’s safe
now. Why don’t you take some deep
breaths to calm down.” I take a deep
breath, hoping he’ll match my breath. It
won’t hurt either of us to do some deep breathing right now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“That’s
not what you want.” He says in a
mock-seductive voice. He has a speech
impediment and it comes out as he emphasizes his words, cocking his hip to the
side and saying, “You wanna fuck me!” He
starts taking his pants off and swings them in a circle like a lasso and throws
them at me. I move and there is a boy in
the hallway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Are
you ok, Miss?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Of
course, honey. I just need you guys to
keep doing a good job following directions, and being safe in the living
room. Why don’t you turn on a cartoon
and keep talking to Miss Angela. Let her
know what’s going on and another staff will be here soon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
pray for staff to be early so I can switch out.
I’m setting Damien off but I can’t figure out what to do about it. I can’t let him go out and attack the other
kids, which he is likely to do if I move from the doorway, but if I block him,
he will chose the power struggle and I’ll be stuck in a restraint. He’s clearly remembering some sexual abuse so
I really don’t want that either. I opt
to continue to stand in the doorway and protect the other kids, but turn my
back hoping it will be less engaging. He strips the rest of his clothes off and
runs into me punching me repeatedly in the butt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
like it in the butt, bitch? Yeah, you
know you want that!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’m
sorry if someone said that to you, Damien, but I don’t want anything like that
from you.” I say and protect myself as
best as I can. I move away from his next
attack and he goes for the door. I grab
him and put him in a restraint against the wall. I feel his skinny, ropey muscles tighten and
then go completely slack. He slides to
the floor (contrary to my training,) and I let him go. Before I can get away, he uppercuts me in the
crotch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’ll
punch you in that pussy, bitch!” spit foams in the back of his mouth on the
“ch” sound and spills out of his clenched teeth as he repeats more past trauma
about bitches, asses, and fucking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We
go round and round. I try not to engage
him, but he has more experience in this dynamic than I do and finds ways. He knows he can go for his peers and I can’t
let him. He tries every vile thing he can think of to
get my attention. He dances rhythmically
in his tiny body, grabbing his penis in a gesture that is not eight years old. Bends over and shows his tiny bottom. Makes kissing noises. Laughs, then charges me again, punching at my
crotch and falling to the ground. I end
up in restraint after restraint with him.
I hold him, myself terrified, knowing I’m probably retraumatizing this
child, but not sure what else to do to keep the other kids safe from him. His arms are pinned around his front, left
elbow locked under right, with his body in the corner and my hip turned into
him. I do not speak until his breathing
slows. He pretends to calm down, I tell
him to take three deep breaths. He
does. I tell him I’m going to let go of
his left arm. I do. He falls to the ground and laughs. We start all over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Staff
is late and I’m beginning to panic. I’m
slick with sweat and exhausted. I’m
shaking from the strain and my arms don’t seem like they have the strength for
another hold. I don’t think I can
continue to do this for too much longer but don’t know what else to do. I call to one of the boys to ask Angela to
get someone to come in. She does her
best to reach someone at the school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
check my watch. We’ve been at it for
over forty five minutes now and he’s not calming down at all. He does not exhaust as easily as I do. We go another twenty five minutes with him
punching me, attempting to seduce me/reliving his past, and me avoiding a
restraint, then doing one, then letting go, then right back in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Three
people arrive at the same time and a trusted coworker from the school, Dave,
comes back to take over. My clothes are
soaked in sweat and my whole body shakes.
Release is imminent. I go out to
help the boys get off to school. I want
their day to go well. I know they’ve been worried for me and afraid
of what’s going on. It’s upsetting for
small children and they are. Dion throws
himself into my arms and I let him give me a real hug. I’m not sure if it’s for me or for him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Don’t
worry, Dion. I’m ok.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He’s
nearly crying. “I’m sorry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Hey,
this isn’t your fault. You guys did
great. You stayed calm. You stayed safe. I’m proud of you. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
They
still look unsure so I add, “This is my job you guys. We’re all ok.
We’ll talk about it at school today, ok?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
They
are quiet and compliant. They get in the
van and go to school. I clean up the
kitchen and drive my own car to the school.
I sit down in a scavenged chair at the long table in the teacher’s
lounge. I rest my head in my hands
trying to collect myself before class. I
hear Damien and keep it together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Go
on downstairs to your classroom.” He tells
Damien softly. I strain, don’t hear
anything, so he must have worn himself out and gone down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Dave
sits down next to me and waits a minute and asks if I’m ok. I realize there is no way I will teach
reading in five minutes. I fight back
tears and ask if someone can call our boss and see if they can cover my classes
for a little while so that I can collect myself. Dave tells me he’ll take care of it and I
walk out. I drive to the grocery store
around the corner and pick up donuts and fruit.
I go back to the lounge and stuff and swallow my way through avoiding
crying. It doesn’t work. Dave comes in and the tears pool, spill out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Images
of the things Damien said and did an hour ago come in waves. The glimpse I got of his trauma is
overwhelming. At his age, I thought sex
was two naked people rubbing up against each other. And I’d always thought <i>that</i> knowledge had been advanced.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
just can’t believe that he had to live that way. <i>That</i>
was his reality. This is my job. I take breaks and sit in here and eat donuts
and at the end of the day go back to my life.
That <i>is</i> his life.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
That
afternoon the clinical team decides Damien’s attachment disorder and previous
sexual abuse is being triggered by the closeness of our reading classes. He had gotten close enough with me that the
next natural step, to him, was for things to turn sexual. He had literally never had a relationship
with a caring adult that was not sexual.
I was not the first staff he had done this with. A few days later he had to change therapists
after becoming too sexualized around Angela.
Two weeks after that he was hospitalized. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When he returned,
the shine was drugged out of his eyes, and the mania was gone from his
laugh. His reading classes never
resumed.</div>Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-77727905672245143082012-06-02T20:09:00.000-06:002012-06-02T20:09:04.429-06:00Day 59I worked on an assignment for grad school which was really emotionally taxing. When you write your memories, you relive them, in greater detail and over a longer period than the actual scene was at times. I tried to clip through sections here and there to present a whole, tightly packaged scene. So I cut out a lot that flooded into memory. I'm gonna go ahead and do some dumping of what got cut. These are about kids I've taught in residential treatment, which is where kids who struggle to function in life, much less school, are educated(ish.)<br />
<br />
I remember a little girl with big brown eyes and long shiny medium brown hair. She was always dressed like a princess and followed all the rules in school. She was a good student, but significantly smaller than she should have been. She had a Russian accent even though she had no memory of the Russian orphanage she came from. She'd been adopted and then dumped back into the system when her problems were too big for any normal parent to navigate. I was once in my office, late in the evening. It was probably 7ish. I'd gone home, eaten, and come back to finish some work. The school was long ago closed and the kids were at the houses on campus where they spent their evenings. This girl suddenly appeared in my classroom. <br />
"V? Is that you?"<br />
She smiled and said "Hi, Miss Mitchell." in her cute little Russian accent.<br />
I had her come into my office and we chatted. She claimed nothing was wrong and was her usual upbeat self. I told her I'd need to call her house and let the staff working know where she was. She was fine with it. I picked up the phone and dialed. It began ringing just as the twentyish staff member with big, pretty blue eyes, and long healthy black hair came in. <br />
The doe-eyed sweetpea, maniacally laughed as she sprinted toward her, leapt into the air, grabbed fistfuls of black hair and hung from them. She continued to laugh and squirm. <br />
The next day at school, it was as though it had never happened. <i>That</i> is an attachment disorder.<br />
<br />
There was a 17 year old mentally disabled boy that I pulled out of classes in a group of four for intensive reading and math instruction. One day, two of the other three from the group were missing so it was just the two boys and myself. While I stood at the board, the other boy interrupted saying "Miss, I'm sorry but J has his hand in his pants. I just thought you should know."<br />
"Yeah, so you're going to need to get your hand out of your pants, J." <br />
J wrote an apology note in his disabled way that included the phrases "I'm sorry I put my hand in my pants in your classroom," "I promise never to put my hand in my pants in your class." and probably said "hand in my pants" about four more times in various forms. <br />
<br />
My sister-in-law briefly worked for the symphony and got us some free tickets. I talked about going the next day at school and many of the boys I worked with not only had never been but didn't know <i>what</i> the symphony was. Because they were institutionalized, I made arrangements for them to go to a formal dress rehearsal (rather than a regular performance.) I remember being absolutely terrified something would go horribly wrong. I'm sure I snapped here and there in an attempt to keep them on their absolute best behavior. They did just that. They had a fantastic time, wrote beautiful thank you notes, and didn't put a toe out of line. It was one of the best things I've ever done.<br />
<br />
At one of my jobs, I didn't really make quite enough money, so sometimes I picked up extra shifts in the evening working at the houses where the boys lived. I remember going back to the house after school and having enough free time that I offered to take the boys for a run. It wasn't a major, planned outing but they really appreciated it. We jogged around this normal suburban neighborhood while they chatted and just got to act like normal (albeit slower-running) teenaged boys. I was seen as somewhat of a tough staff member. So they were sent into hysterics when we came upon a snake and I screamed like Jamie Lee in a horror movie. <br />
<br />
I remember the day a boy broke my aquarium in a fit of anger, sending glass and African water frogs all over the floor. I wasn't there but it was something I didn't do well at forgiving. I never was good at forgiving animal abuse and told therapists not to tell me if that was an issue a kid had.<br />
<br />
I remember getting flowers from the boys my last day working with them and that they each thanked me for some way I'd impacted them, something we'd done. Each one said something different. It was the only time I remember crying in front of students. It remains possibly the most meaningful moment of my professional life.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-47888569454247137742012-05-31T20:40:00.003-06:002012-05-31T20:41:34.016-06:00Day 58I had this recurring dream when I was a kid. It would happen when I was sick and my fever was high. I remember it was terrifying. All the more so for its indescribably abstract nature. It was a dream of ideas. Crushing wrong ideas that I could not pinpoint and was punished for trying. <br />
<br />
I'd awaken in a sweat, petrified. Occasionally screaming. And my mom would come. Or my dad. That calming looming shadow beside my bed ready to help. Patient, kind, nurturing. But the panic of fever induced nightmares stays above the bed, waiting for you to drift back so it can tackle you again and I knew. I needed to explain for them to help me. <br />
<br />
The dream defies explanation. It is a substance of indeterminate size. Just when you think it is a large black, velvety antimatter coming to claim you, it shrinks. It is thin when you say it is thick, long where you think short. The moment you commit to its shape or size, it makes you a fool and destroys the thick place within yourself you didn't know you had. When you call it tiny, it takes a humiliating bite out of the tiniest value you have left. It leaves you panting as it laughs, then humiliates you for saying it had a voice in the first place.<br />
<br />
I've had other repeat dreams since that one. Snakes, teeth falling out. But nothing is scarier than something you can't even describe. That dream was fear extracted and abstracted. Then it humiliated and multiplied.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-89413478459303552312012-05-30T20:25:00.000-06:002012-05-31T20:27:50.800-06:00Day 57<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
A lot of marriage is tolerating and at times ignoring each
other's foibles. In the case of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>some</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of us, we pretend not to have
any. I don't stick my foot in my mouth on any sort of a regular basis,
the natural result of saying nearly <i>everything</i>
I think. I'm certain my excessive swearing has never embarrassed anyone,
especially not my husband who I cannot believe had the guts to introduce me to
the elderly portion of his family. I never henpeck. I do not try to
strategically choose the diaper changes I volunteer for to avoid poops. I
never shave just one leg. And I
certainly do not fart loudly in my sleep or snore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I especially do not do those things when I'm pregnant as I
find myself now. Yup, that's right, pregnant again. That's how it
feels even though this is only my second child. I feel like Carla from
Cheers, as though everyone will just assume I'm always pregnant. Oh, and
irresponsible. Because who thinks the timing is just perfect for another
child when she's unemployed? This girl, that's who.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
While I can go on and on about my husband's bizarre list of
annoying quirks, (using a screw driver to obsessively pick each and every
dandelion out of the lawn or compulsively talking about where to put the
potatoes in the garden when it is, in fact, December,) my current
irritation is the OB and all things twat-related.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I'm speedy at almost everything I do (except brushing my
teeth which my husband regularly sends himself into gales of laughter complete
with toothpaste coming out of his nose while mimicking me,) but you just never
know how much time a visit to the OB office will take. I'm not naturally
patient, so my composure during each privacy-invading trip is challenged. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Most recently, I went to the OB's office for an ultrasound
to check for a heartbeat. My doctor has recently moved her offices from a
regular ole' office, to a spa. Ok, it's not really a spa, but it feels a
bit like someone might put an avocado mask on your face and offer you a
mimosa which I would have to spit daggers out in declining. Seriously,
I'm pregnant again? Didn’t I just stop
nursing, like, yesterday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
So my patience is less tried with the bubbling waterfall
noises and the lightly scented aromatics and the fuzzy socks on the
stirrups. But oh yeah, I'm at the doctor for my girlparts and there are
STIRRUPS. Back to that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
You go through the regular song and dance. A
twenty-year-old skinny bitch smiles politely and takes your blood pressure and
then tells you to undress from the waist down. She points at the lovely
paper napkin you can use to cover a tenth of yourself and tells you the doctor
will be right in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Here's where the unpredictability of your errand comes
in. You have absolutely<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>no</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>idea how long it will be before the
doctor actually comes in. It could be moments after stripping or it could
be quite a while. In my experience, it's generally right when you get to
a good part of whatever book you brought. What's that? You brought
Anna Karenina? You're screwed. You will wait hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
In
all fairness, the wait time until <i>any</i>
doctor comes into the exam room is unpredictable. I once ran low on patience at the regular
doctor’s office and painted iodine pictures all over the sink area with those
footlong cotton swabs. The doctor was
less than amused. The difference at the
girl-doctor’s is that you’re sitting there half naked with a <i>napkin</i> drapped over your nanny. Before the twatdoctor, I tend to do a little
extra primping. I shower and put makeup
on and generally obsess back and forth about whether to shave or not, usually
opting for a five-minute shave. I can be
a bit of a slob but don’t want my doctor to think she’s going to catch a case
from being in a room with me, so I groom.
Which makes the half naked/half dressed combo even more awkward. It’s like one of those children’s books of
animals where the pages are split so that you can get an animal with ostrich
legs and a giraffe body. Oops, turn the
page, and now it’s a professional on top, and an irresponsible knocked up half-shaved
girl on bottom. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
This
trip in particular felt like an eternity waiting for the doctor and my patience
was running thin. I was just about to
rant about the wait-time to my husband when the doctor came in and before I
knew it my toes were making up with the fuzzy stocking-footed stirrups as the
doctor said “A little pressure” (a ridiculous statement to someone who has
given birth,) and the ultrasound games began!
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
The
doctor looked around and found the embryo easily. She had no trouble locating the heartbeat and
highlighted it with red and blue dots that blinked on the screen. She synched those up and then pushed a few
buttons and the room filled with the
reassuring sound of a heart beating inside me that was not my own. I teared up.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Before
any tears could escape though, the doctor moved on to look at my ovaries. She found the one responsible for the new
heartbeat and showed me how she knew.
I’m one of those people who always ask to see it if you have a new
injury. I like to see what’s under the
microscope if the labs are done in-house.
And if you need your sunburn peeled or your stitches
not-so-professionally removed, I’ll totally do it. So when the doctor was digging around looking
at all my internal bits and pieces, I showed interest. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Is
that my ovary?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Actually,
if you’re interested, that’s your small bowel.
You can tell because there’s this dark line of liquid surrounding solid
material.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Which
was nice to hear about and see identified on the 50 inch screen with my husband
right there. She might as well just have
said “And here’s some poop!”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Thankfully
when you’re in the twat-spa and hearing your baby’s heartbeat for the first
time, you don’t care about anyt<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>hing else. </div>Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-67414613610799744682012-05-29T21:15:00.003-06:002012-05-29T21:15:59.770-06:00Day 56She wakes up and it's drizzling. It feels late in the day and she regrets having skipped breakfast. Regrets not cancelling. She's not certain but she thinks the sun will set soon, is maybe in the process of setting now. It will be getting cold. She regrets not hopping down the trail sooner. She could have rested and hopped, rested and hopped, and gotten to the trail head by now. Now it will be dark and cold and she hasn't eaten in nearly 24 hours. <br />
<br />
She gets up. Hops as far as she can, then sits down to rest. She's probably only gone a block. With the fast clip she came in on, it'll only be a week before she gets back to the trail head. And then, what? Her car's a stick shift, she won't be able to drive it. So she'll still be hoping someone will stumble upon her then. <br />
<br />
She tries not to panic. She gets up and hops some more, gets dizzy, chilled, rests.<br />
<br />
Dear God,<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I don't want to die in the woods without showering or ever having children. I don't want to die with people's secrets in my keeping. Really, I don't want to die with my own secrets kept. I know this whole thing is my own stupid fault, but if I could get a hand from even the grizzliest of weirdos, that'd be helpful. <br />
<br />
<br />
She hears something rustling in the bushes, gets optimistic. Maybe she'll reconsider her stance on god after all. Then she hears a grunting and realizes the steps are not human. She just hopes its not a bear. Hopes it passes her and she just gets to ponder what it might have been. Maybe she can make it into a bear in the retelling without ever having to actually see a bear. Thank god, I'm not on my period, she thinks, just as she sees something dark and looming coming through.<br />
<br />
She feels warm wet between her legs when the quantity of brown fur comes into full view. A thousand possibilities fly into her mind: yelling, screaming, staying quiet, playing dead, petting it because why the fuck not since she's about to die in the woods. She freezes though and just doesn't do anything. The bear is upon her, sniffing and batting her. She swallows the pain and doesn't make a sound, playing possum.<br />
<br />
The bear sniffs her some more, then thunders off in another direction. Her foot really hurts now and her face is scraped up from allowing herself to just fall where the bear plopped her down.<br />
<br />
Her foot still has a soggy, wet, dirty sock on it and has swelled and shrunken depending on cause in those conditions. She begins genuinely fearing that her foot may be lost. And really, what if the bear gets desperate and comes back?<br />
<br />
Dear God,<br />
<br />
Ok, I've broken my ankle, it's raining, I'm cold, I've been attacked by a bear, II'm sitting in my own piss, and it's getting dark. I'm getting pretty scared now. So here goes:<br />
<br />
In second grade when I told everyone that Billy Williams farted in music class, he really didn't. It was me. In seventh grade when I told everyone Sarah Stone lost her virginity to Sam Spoede, she really didn't. It was me. In tenth grade when I told everyone that Tyson Barson was masturbating in the girl's bathroom, that was true. I just didn't mention the part where I convinced him it would be hot if he did and that I watched for a while. <br />
<br />
I don't even feel all that embarrassed. I guess you already knew any of these things I'm telling you anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />
With her head slightly cleared, she came up with a plan. She hopped a little farther, then started gathering leaves and branches. She made a pile and crawled into it to do her best to stay warm. There was no way she would make it back to the car before morning and anyway, even if she did, she wouldn't be able to go anywhere when she got to her car. She shivered, and slept.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-40387071775863931012012-05-28T19:45:00.004-06:002012-05-28T21:12:30.874-06:00Day 55She starts her day later than she meant to. She's flustered and frustrated with herself. It just makes for one of those mornings where she can't find her keys or matching socks or get anything to get out the damn door. <br />
<br />
She looks at the clock and realizes she'll never make it to meet Janet. She's always missing her connections with Janet. She's so pissed at herself for getting up late. She loses another ten minutes debating whether it's better to cancel now or to call and tell Janet she'll be an hour late. She wants to see her friend, it's just that Janet gets so bristly when you're late. She just can't handle bristly when she's already kicked herself this many times before noon.<br />
<br />
"I'll cancel," she thinks.<br />
<br />
Then goes back to debating. She doesn't want to flake. She doesn't know when she'll get the chance to see Janet again. But she's seriously considering crawling back into bed at this point and just downing a couple of valium and melting into a sleepy, masturbatory, self-pity party. <br />
<br />
"No, I'll go."<br />
<br />
She searches for her keys, skips the shower, skips breakfast, skips coffee. Shit, she shouldn't need coffee when she's gotten this much sleep. She wears mismatched socks but doesn't care, she's out the door. <br />
<br />
As she's locking up, her cell phone rings. She digs, drops things, digs some more, then locates it just as it goes to voicemail. It's Janet, probably calling to make sure she's still coming, given their recent track record. She calls back and gets Janet's voicemail. She gets in the car and starts heading toward the trailhead where they're to meet. Her voicemail tinkles and she checks it. Janet's dog's sick. God DAMNIT! She regrets not showering, her mismatched socks, getting out of bed at all. But she's got it minimally together and has gone this far. She snaps the decision to continue to the trail. It's a nice morning after all.<br />
<br />
The sun is fully up when she arrives and there are early morning people (like she should've been,) who are on their way back down. She puts her sunglasses on and starts off.<br />
<br />
She's working out all her frustrations and feels it in her pace. She's brisk today. Anger scraps her calves as she pounds her way up the inclines. <br />
<br />
She gets into a grove, stops seeing things. Just smells the pine needles in her long inhales. The water and her movement rush out all the other sounds. It is meditative at this point and she doesn't experience anything but the long strides and the breath and the water.<br />
<br />
She goes on like this for long enough to lose herself in it and have no concept of time when she realizes she's thinking again. She's resenting her friend and feeling lonely. She's doing that self defeating thing where she builds a case on how she doesn't have friends and is a lonely, undeserving person. If you're annoyed by her, trust me, you feel exactly like she does about herself.<br />
<br />
Her pace slows and she considers indulging her self-defeat further, pushing herself down so that she can have a good fullout cry and move on. She knows she can search long enough through memory to find the times when she's been humiliated, think of how pathetic she is, and really tear herself a new one. But she realizes she doesn't want to pass people on the trail with her eyes all puffy and have to pretend it's allergies. She thinks of her bed and promises herself a xanex and a good cry when she gets home, when she trips.<br />
<br />
She tries to catch herself, but instead, twists sideways and hears a pop. She's dazed and her ankle stings. "Idiot," she thinks! "Wimp," She thinks. And she pushes herself up to stand. Immediately she grows lightheaded, her field of vision goes black as she crashes right back down. She tells herself to keep it together and avoids fully losing consciousness. She breathes and sees the light come back into her sight. She looks down.<br />
<br />
Her foot can't be her foot. It simply doesn't go that way. It is turned and twisted and no longer hers. It will certainly not do anything useful for her. She is fine hip to foot on her right side, which is stronger anyway, right? She lies down and gives in for a few minutes. Rests. Then she considers moving off the trail and just dying, she considers waiting until someone comes upon her and asking for help, she considers hopping all the way back to the car. None of the options sounds good. <br />
<br />
She settles on dragging herself off the trail and indulging in the good cry now. She starts, grows dizzy, and stops, then starts again. It takes time, but she finds herself next to the stream. It is recently melted so just above freezing in temperature. She attempts to take her shoe off, which makes her woozy and she stops. She considers plunging her ankle in shoes, socks, and all, but thinks this might be worse than <em>not</em> icing her ankle. Then she's doing it and it feels better even though she's probably making it worse. She pulls it out and just lies there and thinks about god.<br />
<br />
Dear God,<br />
<br />
What the fuck? I got up late, overcame my self-pity to come on this hike and now I'm lying off the trail like a fucking idiot with a soggy fucked up foot. Why? Why? Why? If you could please get me out of this, I would certainly reconsider my position on your existence.<br />
<br />
KthankxBYE!<br />
<br />
The tears don't come. She's not going to have her good cry now. She realizes this idea of hers won't due. She has enough adrenaline now or sense or whatever that she comes up with a more practical plan. She gets up and hops back toward the trail. Slips and falls again. And the pain! Dear GOD the pain!<br />
<br />
Dear God,<br />
<br />
THE PAIN! Seriously, is this because I said "fuck" when we last talked? Or is it that I'm not convinced of you? Either way, not cool, God. Not cool.<br />
<br />
She's at least closer to the trail now and it's early enough in the day that someone will come along eventually. She might have to lie here swelling and sogging for a while but there'll be someone. Eventually.<br />
<br />
She thinks she'll hear the person even if she sleeps. She knows she shouldn't need to sleep after <em>over</em>sleeping this morning, but fuckit, she can't cry. And a good rest sounds good. Her mind meanders off on the slope of disturbed sleep as part of her mind stays here and part of it goes there.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-64354289825277261682012-05-26T21:12:00.001-06:002012-05-26T21:12:15.582-06:00Day 54I'm at The Split about to slip into the seraphinite waters. The water is calm, nearly still here, and could fool you for freshwater if you didn't pay attention. There are crabs on the bottom and fish flitting here and there away from the boats and the snorkels. I stop partway in and feel the baby move in my calm waters. I stop and put a hand on my belly to feel it better, whatever it is. Rob has just felt it too for the first time here in Belize where days are slow and sidewalks long. I'm happy for this reality, and the confirmation of the baby's growth. <br />
<br />
I swim around for a while. There is a concrete slab that divides The Split and I linger near it watching for fish. I hop up on the side and sit watching a group of kids playing after school. They try to sell me popcorn but I decline. They try everyone else, sell what they can, and then take their time getting home, taking dips in the water instead. <br />
<br />
I love to watch kids being normal and challenging each other. There's a friendly confidence, a slow-paced, easy jovial nature to the people who work in the tourist industry and I wonder how that trickles down to children and if it is real. From what I can tell it is. These children aren't sneaking to have their fun. They've worked a bit and its hot and now they swim. Later they'll come home when they come home. <br />
<br />
A group of girls is doing the giggily things girls do and I've hopped down off the concrete. At six months into this pregnancy, I'm too hot to cook this baby any more in the sun. I try to be invisible around them so I can see how they play and enjoy their free time. I'm watching one girl who is holding onto to the side of the concrete slab and then suddenly isn't. And she isn't swimming either. She is trying, but flailing. I rush to her and pull her up. Water spews from her nose and her smiling mouth as she slops her hair back and says "thank you," then goes right back to teaching herself to swim.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-20475036170381564742012-05-25T20:07:00.002-06:002012-05-25T20:07:51.077-06:00Day 53overfull stomach pouches<br />
tips forward, slouches<br />
ghosts pouring down<br />
bridges falling down<br />
my fair lady!Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-53783848048190002712012-05-24T21:17:00.000-06:002012-05-24T21:17:29.314-06:00Day 52Sometimes at night, I lie in bed and think of all the energy I put into my room. I avoid going to bed angry. I pace or sleep elsewhere instead of tucking those feelings in between the golden sheets and the off-white duvet of my sanctuary. I try to protect that space with hospital-corner efficiency. I lie there sometimes though and realize it's not just my energy determining the tempo of that place. There are people who lived here before us. <br />
<br />
In the mornings, my son climbs up the bed. A truly superhuman feat. The bed is extra tall and with a pillow top mattress, and his head no where near crests the top. Undeterred but the technical nature of his task, though, he says "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?" and gets himself on up there. Where we read books a minimum of three times in row, clucking and mooing our greetings to a day that has not yet begun at 6:20. And I think of the morning I had him in this same room. And wonder at whether he was conceived here or there. And I wonder whether the people who lived here first got on their knees next to the bed where I'm pondering away, and prayed for their own miracle's safety. <br />
<br />
I have strong feelings about places. I store my feelings in places. And I leave feelings behind in places where I visit them later or don't. Chile is trusted with a piece of my heart purer than fresh squeezed orange juice in a field. I left a lot of resentment in the streets of Saint Louis. I had an apartment there where the walls and floors never met at ninety degrees and you always felt that slight clownshoes on backward mist in your eye. There was a shooting in front of the apartment and dozens were taken away in a patty wagon. I wasn't home at the time and since I missed it, could easily pretend that the occurrence had not soaked into my home. I just focused on the next door neighbor, Pearl, who told me about stealing her father's chew out of a trunk when she was five and drove me to school when my car broke down. She made the halls smell like fried chicken you only hear about in movies and can smell the lard in the theater even over all that butter and wasting.<br />
<br />
I'm a consumer of places. I like to feel what's there and possibility and history, store it in my senses, drop off a thought or a feeling or two, and move on to the next place. I like stopping at old mining shacks while hiking, kicking off my shoes and climbing into an old bunkbed, and thinking about the warmth they fell asleep to with a fire blazing while lying on the springs with no roof that were left behind. Sometimes a place feels too yucky and I'll pass right on through as quickly as possible. Las Vegas Los Angeles, Lost souls, Loused dreams. My room is more complicated though. I want to reinforce the space between my walls and the rest of the house, the rest of the world, so that I can clean up the energy my own way. Open windows or close doors or cry or read or fart in safety. I can't simply move on to the next space if someone gets shot there or the neighbors keep banging away their anger and it gets through the walls to me. I have to mentally build up textures of my own experience, light a candle in an effort to defend my homeland.<br />
<br />
Still, how can I not wonder if a Chilean has been in my room? Or what fights got made up there before I ever gave birth on plastic just above the carpet? And what energies are mine and which are thirty year old housewarming gifts?<br />
<br />
My room is a space I am tied to emotionally and logistically. I can't walk away in a week to find a new place to infest with my books and dust. I can't pack up that many photographic memories that must be saved come hellfire or tide water. Neither can I hold off the emotions across the hall at all hours of toddlers crying and slamming doors. <br />
<br />
Maybe I'll unwrap a housewarming gift this evening. It will have answers in broken bows and recipes for protection and hopes for good cheer. Then maybe even I'll drop to my knees to thank the universe for kindly continuing to look favorably enough on me and mine. Surely that is enough, today.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8777955788888105314.post-7366217201732192392012-05-24T20:38:00.000-06:002012-05-24T20:38:11.505-06:00Journal 4I realize I haven't done a journal entry in a while. Here's what I've been doing instead.<br />
Trying to keep up with my effort to post daily which at times has resulted in some pretty wimpy posts. Still, I think if I let this slide so early in my goal, even if I'm not posting great ideas, it'll go out the window. And I think this is a valuable exercise. I want to keep at it. Especially because not all of the ideas are duds. And not all the ideas are going to be amazing anyway so what the hell.<br />
I haven't been focusing on any particular new things here though because I started grad school and have been furiously looking for work. I've been interviewing for jobs (none of which do I think I'll get to be honest.) And I've been putting in bids on freelance writing jobs (none of which pay above minimum wage.) I quit my job at Social Services 5 months ago now and am starting to worry about the economic problems catching up to us in the not so distant future. So I'm swimming against the stream and exhausting myself trying to fight the current of our savings being flushed away. Oh well. Tonight was a lovely dinner. And my son is developing wonderfully. So while there's food on the table and good company, who am I to complain? <br />
Life is good. Uncertain. And good.<br />
<br />
For now, I'll not add in new goals. I'm just going to try to keep writing every day and posting something. Hopefully it'll give me an idea farm I can harvest from later.Karin Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09818964183621543689noreply@blogger.com0