the bird nest

I passed a sparrow today. It was carrying a twig. It was a husband. The wife was on a branch screaming. They allow themselves to follow these gender roles. Half way to the perch, he dropped the twig. He saw me and landed, frozen by his prize. The wife was screaming.

I wanted to pick up the twig and hand it to her, then gather the blades of grass that littered the tree's base. The gardening crew is out on campus. The next flowerbed was already covered in mulch. Soon, all of the autumn rot they were collecting would be covered, made aesthetically pleasing to University Administration. I wanted to stick my gum between twigs and hold their home together, leave pieces of my sweater to warm the speckled eggs.

I wanted to care for their babies and tell them that they were safe. I wanted to apologize for the nests that are knocked from rain gutters and trim back their branches when they grow too far over the street. I wanted to remove the parking garage and plant trees and add deer and squirrels. I wanted to sing and have them land on my finger and dance in boots that a prince left unattended.

Then he told me, "Write about something you believe in."

And I did, because it was a writing prompt for class and I do what I am told. Here's how it came out so far:

I believe that I will one day be the Crazy Mom. I believe that my kids will enjoy a nearly-vegetarian lifestyle until they get to school and learn about Twinkies and Corn Dogs and Meatloaf with meat. I believe that I will understand when they try to rebel and become an art major and live a bohemian lifestyle; I believe that I will bid on their art under a false name when they sell it on E-bay to buy macaroni and cheese. (I will be sad that it is Kraft instead of the organic brands.) I believe that I will take my children to fly kites and be more upset than they are that it looks nothing like Kite Runner.

I believe that all crayons should be sharp. They should not require the plastic cone on the back of the 96-pack to stay this way. We both know it doesn’t work. What good is the mutilated tip without the ridge surrounding it? I believe that crayons should be sold in hollow, reusable sticks, allowing you to buy just the tips for the colors you need. The rest of that wax is just something to hold on to, and it is thrown away when it can no longer color the retinas of Santa or Dora the Explorer.

I believe that all backpack zippers should make the same perfect sound. The one that means you are learning. The one that preludes all good reading sessions. The one that makes second graders feel like real people, like they are a part of some older academia automatically giving algebra skills.

I believe that books should come with pine-tree shaped scented bookmarks, to give them that “used-book smell” until I can find the time to properly age, stain and mildew them myself. I believe that all books should be printed on pre-yellowed paper. It would make me feel less guilty when I spill tea, dribble coffee or smash a bug.

I believe that flies are a reminder that we are a wasteful people. Flies would not invade our homes if the dishes were rinsed and stacked by the sink. Or if we composted our waste. Granted, they would flock to the compost, but then they are not bashing themselves against the kitchen window until they exhaust themselves and plummet into the soapy water.

I believe that commercials showing nonprofit workers scrubbing the feathers of ducks with Dawn dish soap are reason enough for me to purchase the product. Yes, it is more expensive than Ajax, but I want a pet duck. How could I look them in the eye one day, knowing that I didn’t help their West-Coast-dwelling comrade?

I believe that peanut butter is a food group and will never lead to weight gain. It has no cholesterol because it has no animal. It should not give you a disease from a chicken. This does not mean something is wrong with peanuts. I believe that the only way to get through this outbreak is to eat more peanut butter, so that I need to buy more (thus keeping it out of the homes of children). Much like an economic stimulus plan. I do not believe in cutting the crusts off, but rather biting the corners (instead of the middle) first, so that I can enjoy the crisp, smokier tasting edge with the spongy middle together. I believe that all peanut butter should be stirred and stored in the refrigerator. I know for a fact that it is never found between two crackers with more Real Cheddar Flavor than ever.

I believe that the pictures are made better with finger smears on the edges and dates on the back, and made perfect when the color begins to fade because two hands have held and looked as long as we will.

Giant Otter Haiku

Six feet maximum--
Seventy pounds of back floats
and nose dives. Oh, Peru.

Check it

While you're at it check this. They're in no way related, but it's fascinating.

photoshop

Not all pictures are photography.

I like the un-Photoshopped pictures. The yellow is off and my hair is too red. There are cigarette butts on the ground. Behind him, a plastic bags says "Thank You. Thank You. Thank You." as it blows in the wind and I find myself hoping that it does not stick to a windshield because that crash would require photographs.

I have a small belly and a freckle by my elbow and scars by my lip and hair that doesn't all tuck behind my ear on one side. She has glasses and braces. Our teeth are not white, and the shadow on my cheek is too symmetrical but sometimes these shadows are a comfort. It's nice to know that Someone else is hiding something. That what's left looks ok through a lens not attached to a camera.

He doesn't take pictures and can't make me more perfect on his computer. We sit on the floor, carpet imprints forming negatives of the moment we don't capture digitally and store on a Web site.

I often look around, moving my coffee cup into the edge of a lamp's ring of light and shadow, dripping a sip down the edge and thinking "Yes, with too much exposure, this could look just right." My eyes are not good enough. Colors are more Real and Vivid on computers.

first time in second person

The people walking by the diner’s window seem hallow. A baby cries in her stroller; the mother doesn’t blink. She passes a man whose shoes are untied. He pauses, prepares to say something, but sighs instead. A boy flies down the street like an airplane, humming and swooping and shouting. His father rushes to him, tugging the plane wings hard. He gives the child a silent reprimand with his eyes narrowed and lips slammed shut. He glances both ways up the street, head whipping back and forth checking for witnesses.

Your mind has left the diner, and you stop with mouth posed for a sip. You are watching outside, a TV drama on mute. The chair is hard beneath you, and you weigh the odds of getting a splinter if you get up to pay your check. The heat from the mug is burning your hand, but you don’t sit it down. Your free hand traces the ring of dried coffee on the table. A black apron appears next to you, hands you a cinnamon mint attached to a receipt. The woman beneath the apron has scribbled “Thanks ☺” next to the total. As you fish though business cards and phone numbers in your wallet, you realize that the diner is silent. Those seated in the booths around you wear the same concerned, ready-to-speak expression as the man with untied shoes. They are staring at the fuzzy television hovering above the counter. Waitresses are standing below, head back and mouth open like baby birds.

On the screen, a skyscraper glows like a birthday candle. The image cuts and begins again. An airplane comes at the building. People in the restaurant look away. The building glows like a birthday candle. Your wallet falls to the table. You crush the mint between your teeth. You stand up and get a splinter.

a recent development

My room has a habit of welcoming silverfish like immigrants flooding Ellis Island in the early days. Except it doesn't check for disease. I have smashed them on my walls, my blinds, my carpet and my leg. (I want to forget the last part ever happened. It fell on my from the ceiling.)

However, in light of recent developments (read: having to give up my pet), I have decided to welcome the little bastards, keep them in a jar, name them and teach them tricks. They will not cuddle with me, and I will not love them, but I will care for them.

jill.

In an effort to feel loved, I purchased a guinea pig. Her name is Jill, and she sits comfortably in the palm of my hand. Her fur is camel-colored and soft, sticking to my shirt to make me look like the crazed cat woman I will never be. I bought her fancy pet food to show that I love her, like on the commercials with the cat tins. She digs around the corn and carrot, even the marshmallow-esque stars and horseshoes. She will only eat the pellets, the guinea pig equivalent of hot dogs. I talk to her and make kissing noises, but her ears are sensitive. I think I frighten her.

Growing up, I had guinea pigs. Touching them made my retinas swell and the soft skin on the inside of my elbow turn to dry leprosy. I spend my senior year of high school stoned on D-Allergy, sleeping through my classes so that I could breathe at home. Zyrtec gave me depression, and I would sit on our couch and cry until I fell asleep.

I overlooked this when I saw Jill at the pet store. I bought recycled-cardboard bedding, thinking this would cure any possible allergic reaction. I didn't know it was the dander.

I can't hold her. I rub my eyes until it hurts to blink. I shut my eyes until it hurts to hold the tears in. I cry, which actually flushes out the allergy and makes me feel much better. I have realized that I cannot live like this. If my landlord reads this, I feel like it would be a winning case for me to be allowed a dog. I can only kill so many fish before I become jaded. I don't want to be jaded to death. That is not the point of my pet-owning experiments. I want to be loved and cuddled during this "trying" and "growing" and "good-for-me" long distance nonsense.

On Friday, Jill and I will be going on a field trip, much like Old Yeller. Without the death. Or disease. Or Jill ever somewhat saving my life. It is sad. I love her, and think that she may trust me. I guess this is where all of the similarities are. We will go to Ohio and hang out with my parents, and then I will come home. If I am lucky, the avocado pit in the window will have an even larger crack in it than it does now.

Yes, the second attempt to grow an avocado tree has been so-far successful. The brown layer is peeling off to reveal a white, potato-like core. (Odd that a pit has a core, I know.) This paler center is cracking, like the pictures I saw on Google. I have reason to believe that in four to five weeks, there will be roots.

meshuggah

a Yiddish word for crazy or foolish, and the first place I have visited solo in St. Louis

After dropping Joe at the university to teach the lesser, lowly undergraduate-types how to put Prose before Hos--as seen on a t-shirt-- I drove down the Loop. On the way, I passed three cop cars and got brake-checked twice. I can imagine what Joe would say if he had been in the car.

Goal for today: complete law handout and French 335 reading. Now that I have typed it, read it and made it known to others, I must accomplish it. I must also find ways to distract myself and make them take as long as possible so that I am not forced to move on to my thesis.

The hum of steaming milk is comforting. I have my earbuds in and am actually embarrassed by them, by my seeming need to remove myself from the intoxicating environment of an eclectic coffee shop. The baristo handed me my chicory roast and apologized for the extra strength he feared it would have. I thanked him, then watched a man order an espresso, then a slice of banana nut bread, then milk for the espresso, then a to-go cup so that he could get the proper amount of milk into the espresso. I could feel the baristo's disappointment as the crema was destroyed, dripping down the side of a paper cup. A dog barks outside and we both turn to look. A couple that hasn't washed their hair in four days steps to the counter, and I am no longer a part of the moment.

monophobia

Monophobia: an abnormally acute fear of being alone

It is estimated that nearly 11.7 percent of Americans suffer from monophobia. This is not true. It is also not true that I suffer from monophobia, though for a long time I convinced myself that I did. It is true that between 5.1 and 21.5 percent of Americans suffer from claustrophobia.

I am a sufferer of claustrophobia in the most elemental sense: being closed in--in the physical, physiological and psychological sense. When crossing bridges, my heart races at the idea of having no escape. All travelers are headed in the same direction, like cattle or sheep, from point A to point B across the water/cliff/street. When picking a career, my heart races at the idea of living the same life, waking each morning to the same job, for more than five years.

This fear is marginalized by the most poignant fear that I suffer from, a sort of reverse-monophobia that freezes my heart in the middle of those truly existential moments that happen in the shower or as one drifts to sleep: At some point, I will stop breathing. Who will I leave behind?

My roommate laughs at me when I say that I will not have children for fear that they will live through the Apocolypse. I find this common sense. I do not wish to inflict pain or possible suffering on anyone, born or yet-to-be. This idea extends to my own death... How many people do I want close to me at that point? How many am I willing to affect by my death? I suppose this is giving myself a lot of credit, assuming that they will be emotionally damaged by my absence. So then, is it more noble to wish that I die first and leave others to have happy, healthy lives--wish that I could absorb the pain and possible sickness for them? Or is it better that I outlive them and spare them the pain of living through loss?

When my overworked (and most likely, if I'm having this conversation with myself, under-rested) mind reaches this point, the claustrophobia sets in. I am trapped. Completely closed in by the emotional ties of our species that we believe no other animal is capable of. Maybe they have it easier, if that's true, if they have they ability to mate with multiple partners and move on after the death of a family member by forgetting or not even understanding that it happened. I am doomed to love and be damaged by the loss of it. The large "They" tells us that it is better this way.

I recently wrote an essay (again, giving myself credit by calling it an actual essay) about my addiction to this connection and the feeling of being needed by some[one]. I am torn by the death of each goldfish, each rust-filled avocado pit that fails to sprout. So I purchased a guinea pig, in the hopes that it will love me and need me and know that it will never have to miss me. If there is a fear-of-the-death-of-a-guinea-pig, I suppose I suffer from that, too. And I suppose it is better this way.

spring forward

I have been alone in my house for approximately 2.5 hours. In that time I have:
done the dishes
•cleaned the bathroom
•made Jill the Guinea Pig feel at home
•cleaned out the fridge
•packed for St. Louis (most of the weight coming from books for my thesis and blueberry pancake mix)
•read about the cruel treatment of animals in slaughterhouses and thought about how my friends' farms are misrepresented
•eaten a spoonful of peanut butter
•started laundry
•thought someone was breaking into my house 4 times

I have a tickle in my throat and cannot stop coughing. It makes it near impossible to type, really. My fingers shake on the keys like they've had too much coffee. Pieces of lung tear, and I choke on water.

I assaulted my abs with 10 Minute Boot Camp--the section cleverly called "Ab Assault"-- and feel good about it. Ready for another spoonful of peanut butter.

I blame Rachel. I have an obsession with all-natural peanut butter and will consume at least one jar a week. (I suggest Krema It would be more if I knew that I could make it to the store for more. To limit this over-consumption, I have stopped buying it. I was eating a serving of almonds instead, getting the Omega-3's and protein in normal proportions. Then Rachel decides to get organic raspberry jelly and Smuckers all-natural peanut butter. Which I eat. The peanut butter, not the jelly. She will read this and accuse me of eating more than I did. It was only a spoonful.

But I saw what was happening. I was getting sucked back to the fridge, to stare at the jar and wish it was still full. The level had fallen too low--any scoop I took with finger or spoon would be noticable. So I bought a jar yesterday. It is 1/4 gone.

I can't promise that my other roommate's Breyers All-Natural Black Raspberry with raspberry swirls and chocolate chunks will make it through the night, either. This is her own fault. She switched to the carton of vanilla. The raspberry is just full enough. If I scrape the spoon around the edges, taking tiny bits with each pass...