one two three

i drove past mr. t's pizza on sunday. it couldn't have taken more than 3 seconds--but it all seemed like one moment. it didn't seem like a succession of events, but a smooth, swift firework of motions all at once that exploded into a little story. beginning, middle, end, all at the same time--little sparkles hanging in the air to look at for 3 seconds. a moment is 3 seconds, i think. it's just the right amount of time to contain one neat sliver of existence--a sliver that doesn't easily break up into smaller segments of time in one's memory.

see, first i saw a big black dog romping through the parking lot at mr. t's. no place for a dog in a busy area like that.

the car kept moving--i didn't even need to flick my eyes to see a woman near mr. t's window. she stood about two feet away from the building, but she was leaning forward from her hips so that her face was very close to the glass. her back was to me. i saw four white corners framing her ponytailed head: a flyer. my brain said, "maybe that's a 'help wanted' sign? maybe she's looking for a job." i didn't think it in sentence form, because there wasn't time, and because brains don't need to do that. i thought in keywords and just general wordlessness, i think.

just then the woman turned around. she was scrunching her eyebrows together and her chin was warbly--but i could tell that this wasn't a reaction to the bright sun, because the movement of her head unobscured that flyer so that i could read it. i was reading her face and the flyer together. the woman's ponytail slapped against her cheek. "LOST DOG," the paper declared desperately beneath a photo of a big black mutt. the woman's mouth opened and i saw but didn't hear her holler at the dog that was now thirty feet from her.

and then mr. t's was behind me. it wasn't an earth-shattering moment. but hey, then again, maybe it was. if it weren't, why would i have gotten a little shiver down my spine? and maybe that dog is home now!

doing things

some foggy saturdays i think,
"i am going to do a lot of things today,
and my last thoughts before i fall asleep
will be pure admiration of my own productivity."

so today
i sewed a button onto my coat
clipped my toenails
taped up a photo on my desk
rewound some tousled twine
blew my nose 86 times
listened to this song 86 times
ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich
had conversations
lined up my shoes in a row under the bed

and decided that i would fall asleep
admiring something other than my own productivity,
like foggy saturdays in general
and the smooth restraint of tidy toenails in particular,
because those things are usually better
than homework anyway,
and also because the notion of "my own productivity"
has not yet made an appearance in reality.

duh!

september

doctrine I, MWF 14:00.
his voice rumbles, or maybe
it purrs
—but not like that.
strongly, lion-like.
when his words dip down
into that golden decibel,
that cavernous, cozy, loud, warm hum,
i feel the polished cover of
the textbook in my lap
vibrate beneath my fingertips,
shivering like a struck bell.

twenty-four freshly-sharpened pencils
(all yellow)
are never too many pencils.

my blue blue backpack is
the heaviest thing.
my red red heart is
all light.

first impression, june 1908, dust jacket preferred but not required

you might not have known this about me, but it's been my secret goal for a while now to walk into the thrift store downtown, beeline toward the bookcase, happen upon a mint condition first edition of anne of green gables, discretely carry it against my stomach to the register, casually place it face-down on the counter for the nice lady to ring up for fifty cents or maybe a dollar tops, and walk out of the place with a pounding heart and a book that i could sell for a thousand dollars but never ever ever would.

right now

thanks to the compact dimensions of my room,

i was able to reach my camera without moving.

as i was sticking some pins into my dress form the other day, i managed to plunk a toe over the edge of my little pin bin and flip it forcefully. i didn't get a single prick--the pins just piled neatly on top of my foot. i let out a single short snort-breath sort of half-chuckle. i have dangerous and inconvenient sewing methods. note the sewing machine...on the floor. i fiddle with that machine lying on my stomach. ridiculous. the floor of my room isn't quite big enough for me to stretch out completely, though--my feet slump awkwardly against the couch behind me. i think that description makes me sound like a giant flailing fish wrestling (limbless) with needles and thread in the middle of a carpet. oh well.

anyway, as i stood there with those pins swarming politely over my toes, i thought about what a singular situation it was. i didn't move for a little bit, appreciating the metallic coolness of those pins on my skin. i wondered what everybody else in the world was doing right then at that very same moment on thursday afternoon. somewhere, somebody was grinning into a mirror to check her teeth for stubborn salad particles. somebody was hollering to his neighbor across the street--was her power out too, or was it just his? somebody was re-buttoning his shirt because he'd done it wrong the first time. somebody was screwing the lid on a peanut butter jar and licking her thumb. somebody was unwrapping a birthday present and trying meticulously not to tear the paper and giving up and plowing through it. somebody was tugging tiny socks onto a baby. but had anybody dumped straight pins on her left foot at the exact same moment i had? i bet. i bet somebody in the world had.

july

july-- that's a pretty word to look at and write and say.

maybe that prettiness comes from the shapes of the letters-- from the low, gentle curve of j, from the smooth inverted arch of u, from the slim confidence of l, from the harsh angle in y softened by that elegant tail. july: a cat lounging on a windowsill.

or maybe it comes from the sound of the word when spoken. it reminds me of eating a perfect grape--not the grape-eating sound, just the feeling--and not the physical feeling, just the feeling.

but i'll tell you what. maybe the prettiness comes from what happens in the middle of that month made up of those four strong, fluid letters. maybe it comes from sitting on my grandmother's wraparound porch in a tiny town in vermont. the local library is glowing fifty yards from where i sit. order of the phoenix and a glass of pink lemonade are hangin' out on the table next to me. it's ten p.m. and this little street is as dark as can be, except for the aisle of warm windows i see when i crane my neck over the edge of the porch. it stretches on and on into the night, the squares of window-light getting smaller and smaller, closer and closer together. i think this road might stretch on forever, circling all the way around the globe and ending up right back at this old porch. there's nowhere else in the world. just this road. old vermont homes with vermont doors and vermont yards with wet green vermont grass, wet green blades that reflect the light from the windows, that reflect the big ol' vermont moon.

p.s. harry potter. i keep trying to read other books and keep coming back to the summer staple.

p.p.s. harry potter. "motion picture event of a generation"? that's so dumb. no wait, that's SO TRUE.

rain sails us in a leafy boat down the street

the innocence mission's new album is called "my room in the trees" and i think you should buy it as soon as you can, or even sooner. (it comes out july 13th, but if you pre-order it, it should find its way to your doorstep in a real jiffy, like mine did.)

i don't seem to have any words to say about the innocence mission. i suppose it's because i love this band so much that i can't be levelheaded enough to avoid slipping into sappiness. and sappiness is the last thing the innocence mission warrants. their songs are much too unassuming, noble, and true for sappiness. see, even that was sort of sappy, wasn't it? words aren't working. well, you and i would be better off listening to the words karen peris sings, anyhow.