a sign of true love

I have always wanted to learn Morse Code. People find this ridiculous. Where would you use it?, they ask. Why, I reply, anytime I had:
•a flashlight
•a hand I was holding
•a message to tell a friend at a café when I didn't want anyone else to hear
•a bell
•a kazoo
•an injury that prevents me from writing anything other than dots and dashes
•to be quiet in a theater

Clearly, this is something one could still use in everyday life. This got me thinking about Braille, which I would also like to learn. This got me thinking about how one of my friend's has a tattoo that is raised--it feels scar-like when you brush against it.

My roommate was hearing my ramble through all of these thoughts. She piled them together in what we believe would be a remarkable sign of affection if a blind person's significant other got this raised tattoo in Braille. What a lovely gesture.

café

After a successful study session with Rachel at a café not to be named, I am relieved to be in the library. It is raining outside, and my toes are chilly. I'm not wearing socks, so the warmth of the library is going right to them. The contrast from the cold rain and the warm air is refreshing--nice to be feeling something so easy to understand.

A Hot Chip song is running through my head. I am ready to read. I am even more ready, and the weather is made even more perfect, due to the fact that the basement has a coffee vending machine.

Now, I am a barista. I know good coffee. It is not what I had at the aforementioned café. It is not crystallized granules that dissolve "instantly." But there is something oddly perfect, nostalgic and delicious about the machine that spit 75 cents worth of sucre, café et lait into my tiny, argyle paper cup. I have sucked all of the foam from my drink. Sugar lines the side and is dripping back into the water as its molecules break apart.

I am reminded of France. During my stay there, I spent 80 euro-cents a day on these tiny cups of coffee. A café court sans sucre--one in the morning after a winding walk through town and up into the university, surrounded by its crown of the Rhône Alps; one on our break, while I stood in the sun and watched girls sit in the grass and smoke.

I realize how snobby this post sounds. It is not meant to. It is me being completely humbled and simplified. For two minutes, I am removed from the thesis-mess/forgotten-papers/wedding-planning/fear-of-thieves/approach-of-bikini-season paranoia that has dominated my thinking. I am reminded of how lucky I have been. I am enjoying water and powder in a small paper cup like I am 13 again. I am able to write and read and be warm while rain smacks against the glass.

I'm looking forward to being under my puffy blankets, listening to the storm tap Morse code on my roof, telling me to remember that I'm this lucky, to keep in mind that I can only do one assignment at a time. I always told my friends that Morse code is worth learning. They never listened. It's surprising how often it seems like a logical means of communication.

the hood

I woke up at 5:30 this morning, gathered my clothes from the floor, pulled my hair into something like a bun, stabbed my eye trying to put on mascara, successfully put on mascara, turned on the living room light to find my purse, and walked out to my car. I though it was odd that my door was partially open. I thought it was more odd that my glove box was open, and the faceplate was removed from my CD player.

I was afraid. My heart bashed against my rids and the world was under water, slowed and silenced. I got in, and the seat slid away from me. I was torn: Should I turn it on? Were the break lines cut? Was I being watched?

I drove to work and hid from the windows, afraid someone was watching. At seven, I called Rachel to find the same thing had happened to her car: nothing stolen, nothing broken--just moved and searched through.

In a week's time, our landlord will replace our locks. We will hide behind chains and deadbolts, just in case. I have never been afraid, and I hate the tension and guilt that it brings. Everyone becomes a suspect. In the Economic Crisis that fills the news, everyone has a motive. Were they scoping the scene out to make a quicker, larger steal? Or, and I truly believe this, were they "harmlessly" looking for drugs?

The police said they'll be watching, and so will I. I'll be watching the neighbors to gauge their nervousness, watching what pieces of lawn furniture disappear, watching the locks in my car slip back multiple times before being satisfied and walking away.

New Pet

After failing to keep my loves alive indoors, I have begun taking on the yard as my pet. The bushes are a lost cause. In this scenario, I see them the stray cats: they want nothing to do with people, pay no mind to rules but won't stop begging for food. No wild flowers live in the dirt patch of our flowerbed--the bushes have the rain.

And yet, somehow, a stray tulip bulb has flourished. I noticed the three stems several weeks ago. Their future petals were still green at this point, pulled into a tight teardrop. I glanced up and down the street. As far as I could see, the yellow house next door had the only planned flowers; tangled in the mix were several red tulips.

I began monitoring their progress against our own truly wild flower. The neighbors had buds, then blooms, then the classic tulip shape lining their foundation before ours had shown more than a hint of its red between the leaves.

While monitoring the tulip's development, I began looking for the means of its arrival. And I found him: on one walk up the cement steps to our door, a brown bullet with a black tail raced in front of my foot and dove into the shrubs. I jumped off of the steps and investigated the dirt, finding one chipmunk hole. I imagined the brown body sitting just under the surface, listening and waiting. We were poised, on opposite sides of the earth.

And I had pets. With each trip outside, I stopped to touch the petals (now lines of red capped with yellow, like small flames). I stooped in front of the hole Rachel and I found under the top step, an alternate entrance to their home. I looked forward to each trip to the car. Would he be hopping into the stump? Would he bolt from the sidewalk's edge and just make it into the step's hole? Could I pet him?

Yesterday, the tulips opened. I smiled as I descended the steps. Ours were bigger, bolder than the others on the street. The boys next door had a sad-looking bloom, a wanderer like ours. It lacked yellow. The stem was kinked. Our stood tall, opening to show a yellow sunburst at their base. It was my first small success.

Today, I am buying peanuts. After searching through chipmunk images and reading caption after caption of Chipmunks like peanuts! or He's eating peanuts! or His cheeks are full of nuts!, I have decided that the best way to make the little guy reciprocate my affection is to stuff his cheeks with dry roasted, shelled peanuts. One ambitious picture showed a chipmunk taking the snack from a man's hand. My expectations are not this high.

That's not true. I aim for palm-feeding. For the time being, I will settle for finding remnants of shell along the steps. We'll build up slowly.

Things Learned Today

In the listing mood. More reminders to myself.

1. If you don't want to eat the cake, don't stand in the kitchen.
2. If you grab a bigger spoon, you will eat a bigger portion of peanut butter.
3. If you're writing a poem, do not include the word "midnight."
4. If there is a hair in your cup, you should not drink the coffee. Even if it is your own hair.

a small glimpse into my obsessive behavior

I woke up early to begin the homework process. It will be a long day. This is not a complaint, but rather an admission that I am somewhat looking forward to the to-do list. I have become so focused on to-do lists for the time preceding my wedding (480 very busy days) that it is my main coping mechanism. It the moment, it is driving me to distraction. So, take a drive with me and allow me to indulge for a moment. Here, I list my to-do's for the summer--so as to hold myself accountable.

In no particular order:
1. Read the 25 pages I downloaded about WordPress, then create one that is not my ramblings, but rather actual attempts at nonfiction
2. Read the Broken Plate and the three collections of creative nonfiction from this semester.
3. Read War and Peace
4. Study my 1000 French flashcards, update my French binder of notes, read Un Debut à Paris (a book I found for $1 at a café in Knoxville)
5. Speak French
6. Compile the final list of graduate schools and their requirements--limit to 5 (as of now, in order: Tulane, U. of Vermont-Burlington, LSU, U. of Oregon, U. of Washington-Seattle)
6.a. Download all documents needed because there are roughly 80 for each school
7. Read The Feminine Mystique and Alice in Wonderland with Joe
8. Subscribe to bitch magazine
9. Finish designing the RSVPs, invitations, placecards, thank-yous and labels for the wedding
10. Take 2 classes with Ivy Tech
11. Tell the world about EarthShare while being paid $68/month by them to ride MetroLink
12. Write about aforementioned MetroLink

13. Lay on the couch with Joe, watching every Cardinals game and cheer for Lohse, because he is one of two pitchers that has pitched more than one game (He is the only one that won both. And he is from Chico, CA, which I think means Boy, CA or something.)
14. Learn ALL about the social networks and begin using them properly

Everything Dies Here

Two weeks ago, I discovered a stray tulip had found its way into the dirt patch in front of our house. This spot used to be a flower bed, so the bulb may have been a remnant of the home's former beauty, or a squirrel may have been confused when planting his finds. Today, the bud is no more developed than it was in March. They are sealed shut, with only a thin line of red between future leaves to show the petals' color.

Next to us, three boys live the Typical College Lifestyle. Their cars are loud. Their beer cans seep into our yard. They look like they haven't showered in several days. There are several stray tulips in their "flower bed." And they are blooming.

Everything I touch here dies. This morning, I discovered a ring of mold eating away at my avocado seedling. My house plant that my mother nursed from her own and replanted had a dead leaf--one of three on its small, fragile body. I peeled it of and felt the roots loosen in the soil under my force. There was no moisture. This is what happens when I leave for the weekend. This college-town-industry-failing town's water is devoid of nutrients, and all those I feed it to die.

I can only imagine what the water is doing to my body with each pot of pasta, tea or coffee, each teeth-brushing. I received a water filter for Christmas, and the black specks and goo that settle inside feel like a small victory every time. Today, an avocado pit will be pampered. It will be poked with toothpicks and placed lovingly into a Ball jar of filtered water. I will dust the windowsill and clean the glass. It will live. It's joy at living will spread to my miserable house plant, and my mother will never know how it was resuscitated.

Writing Prompt: An Event I Didn't Witness

The bank teller didn’t move. The town’s population and rural community didn’t exactly require training for such emergencies. Should she push the Red Button? Was that a thought from a movie? She couldn’t remember how the alarm system worked. She was still stacking the silver coins, not pretending to count but not wanting to break the rhythm—it felt normal in this moment.

The bank did not have a Red Button. The security system consisted of some invisible “walls” around the vault and the shotguns in many of the pickups parked outside. She decides that she would not be opposed to Concealed Carry. Her imagination handles the situation in the only way it knows, a Quentin Tarantino-style massacre beginning with an aerobatic leap over the counter and a hand whipping pistol from boot strap. She blinks and he is gone. A thin smear of blood follows to the Conference Room. There is silence. Her ears fill with cotton, and she is under water. Time begins again. She runs at the door.

Frustration had been building for a while. He was tired of watching his large Back Yard fill with electric towers and fencing. He was tired of the traffic, of no one yielding to the signs. The snow was melting. Spring was coming—he could feel it in his bones. This time of year always got to him. He was even more frustrated, more anxious, more alone.

He had nothing in mind when he got to town. He hadn’t planned to be irrational or to make a statement. He was walking, lost in thought, and ended up downtown. The storefronts were somewhat mesmerizing, calming. He began to forget.

And then there he was. Staring back at him from inside the bank, the competition. Even here, he couldn’t find peace. That bastard. He charged, ready to end it this time.

The glass shattered. No one knew what to think. The bank teller was stunned. He was frozen for a second, his mind reeling from the impact. And then he went wild. Sprinting from front to back, crashing against wall and counter—he couldn’t find his man. And he left the way he had come, leaving only his blood smears and hoof prints behind.

It is assumed that the deer, who entered the closed conference room window of Fifth Third Bank thought he was charging at a fellow buck. The hard head crashed through the glass and left him confused. Bank personnel heard the noise and paused—Was someone breaking in? They found the conference room empty, followed the blood and debris, but missed the buck in the circular path back to the broken window.

embarrassing

I just read the Giant Otter Haiku. There are six syllables in the last line. I find this embarrassing. But really, did you check out those things? I think they could bite your arm off.

Singapore

I am sick. Sick-sick. Not Cold-sick. I-want-to-die-sick. This is melodramatic. The self-pity reached its peak when I fell asleep on the table-bed-thing covered in butcher paper at the Health Center. I imagined myself as a steak. I would have welcomed a cleaver or tenderizer. I couldn't open my eyes and was angry when the nurse came in and forced me to sit up. Can't you just wrap the paper round me, tie me with twine and be done with it?

She was the motherly sort, and I warmed up to her quickly. She complimented my breathing when she held the stethoscope to my chest; she brought me Cheese Crackers with Real Cheese Filling, Tylenol and a Shasta Twist in a very small can to wash it all down. She told me should would do all she could to keep the cost of prescriptions low. I cringed--I had forgotten about that part. The nurse wrote out a four-hour plan for me, alternating between Tylenol and Advil. Just cross it off each time you take them, but make sure you alternate. Your kidneys could fail. My scared expression made her change the subject.

It should be a bacteria infection. We'll do 2 decongestants and a Z-Pac. I don't want to do too many antibiotics. They'll give you a rash if you have mono. It could be mono; it could be strep. It's too early to tell. My desperate expression made here change the subject. Just wash done those Tylenol with this soda. Feel better.

Hours later, back in my room, I have my life set up--all within arms reach. I am nestled into my comforter, books and Ben, my favorite stuffed animal, piled beside me. I think of the Velveteen Rabbit and put Ben on the floor. He is now surrounded by pill bottles, tissues (new and used) and socks. He is lonely, but I tell him that it is for the best.

I have taken my first round of antibiotics/nasal blah-blahs/pain killers. After spraying the Nasal Mist into my nose, I read the label. Product of Singapore. I thought of the fizzy liquid soaking into my sinuses, spreading through my body. I thought of the lead-paint fiasco that got toys recalled. I imagined spraying led paint into my nostrils. Well, at least the nurse told me how to keep my kidneys from failing.