as i waited for an answer my mind flashed back to the day that i fell into a river. i was nine years old in thick white wool stockings - covered with burrs - and a holiday plaid that fit too loosely at the shoulders. it was sunday, a christmas eve or weekend to be celebrated with proper sobriety and worshipfulness at church, but michelle and i were residential experts at dodging past mother's high heels and watchful, well-meaning elders who wanted to save our soul. we simply slipped out the front door. and ran. we ran across the street and into the glorious playing field (although these days, when i drive past the street, i can't see it anymore, and feel sure that it was never really glorious by itself, but only when michelle and i ran through it in the wind) and past the swingsets through a layer of trees toward the brook. the brook was a curious thing. at nine years old, i thought it was a river, but i realize now that this body of water that i had perceived to be so expansive didn't even merit acknowledgement by local cartographers. iselin, after all, is a town of indian markets and gas stations, not merry streams. my brook must have been three feet across, and a foot deep, but for the sake of adventure and daring, michelle and i believed it to be a wild rushing force of nature. giggling, yelping, freezing, we stepped lightly onto some precarious rock in our shiny patent leather maryjanes. our holiday getup posed no obstacle for us; we had not yet learned the girlishness of appropriate behavior in dresses... i can't even remember if i used to wear anything beneath my dress. the rock, however. the rock tipped and it was exhilerating to clutch onto each other and scream, hoping that we'd fall in while trying with all our might to not lose balance. the next rock lay quite a distance ahead, and of course, michelle urged me to lead the way, for i had short hair, was unabashed about pummeling boys who got in my way, and was far less pretty than she was at that young awkward tomboy age of nine. somehow, these roguish qualities made me the loud leader who would try stupid things like cross a river in dress shoes, and i wonder now if she would be surprised at the sight of me, waiting docilely for an answer from a person i hated. there was really no choice but to jump, but even at that age, i realized that our shoes were in no way designed for such imaginative and impulsive capers as the caper just then. everything worked out, the bitch said. i think i hated her just then. she had been so manipulative, and so excellent at hiding it that i wondered if she had even realized her own scheming. i had been feeling all week long the sinking sensation of endless endless bleached smiles. so jump i did. and michelle, left behind, whined for me to come back and save her from the furious waters, which would have risen only to our knees. i had never been patient, i had always been the one to alternately coax and bully my playmates into doing what i wanted them to do. they all eventually agreed, because my ideas were fun, and something to boast about in front of the boys who called us wimps. she jumped for my arms, and i held them out to her with a sense of responsibility and concentration that seems laughable now. i felt mature, and necessary, and was completely at ease with myself. as michelle's weight slipped across the rocks into my smaller frame, we crashed together into the water, screaming and laughing in triumph while the water soaked our dresses and our hair. we were going to get into so much trouble... and we couldn't wait! nobody could own us on anything... the feat was undefeatable and admired for days and days and days. tomorrow, i'll smile in response to her bleached teeth, and i'll smile at her in response to the hellos and hahas that she tosses around. because people are not inherently hateful -- does she know what she did? what i wouldn't give to be nine years old again. |
| it's funny how when some people ask what's wrong, you can tell them, and with others, you simply shake your head and keep it inside. is it to protect them from your own ache, as a crying mother would protect her questioning child? is it to protect yourself, to protect an image of ebullient and go-lucky anni? because i'm not, really, and when i smile, it is as genuine as when i don't, and get used to it, because who says its my fucking job to smile all the time? |
“All that steel and stone are no match for the air my friend” benadryl tiny pink pill potent and pepsi & apples for good health chinese swimming across my night vision train ride home to mama as she points and laughs at my polka dot face and laughing gloriously with her because it really is that funny. ha-ha, these polka dots of mine. and that phone call missed returned missed answered missed coveted and friendship hurt relationship fought and ache and thirst and yearn? these are the things that engineers try to understand: what the hell makes that stand? to topple, to sway in that wind, and at last, to stand. these are the things. |
that was not necessary. don't unload that on me, damn you. |
I just had the most nightmarish experience. My mom likes to call me as she rides the train back home from a day of work. She probes me for details... Had I been using reading days to my advantage... Have I finally taken interest in any nice boys ("Anni, you have to stop being so sketpical.")... Am I eating heathily... What on earth was on last month's bill (Answer: Incriminating evidence of my obsession with skirts). Such mundane and casual talk, and yet how much I value them. Today, Mom called - as she so often does - to ask about all these things. I told her that I would write her an email, since my response would involve copying and pasting snippets of song lyrics, quotes, and conversations that have been on my mind. In the middle of writing my (always lengthy) email to her, my phone coughed and rang erratically. My caller ID told me it was my mom again, but at the other end, I only heard static. And, for whatever reason, images of the train accidents that rocked Spain last month flashed through my mind. I couldn't get my phone to dial back quickly enough, and I started to purse my lips the way I do when anything frightens me. And again, just static. What the hell was going on? I sat at my desk pressing Send and End forever, and every time, I couldn't hear my mom's voice at all. When she finally did answer, I blubbered, "Mom are you on the train still??" No, she was at home, and was wondering why it was taking me so long to write my novel of an email. She didn't understand why I sounded so desperately relieved -- and later on, she laughed at me and told me I was bizarre. I don't think she knows, but the sound of my mom's gentle joking mocking laughter was the best thing I had heard in a long time. |
my close friend is going through a nightmare breakup, and as she is frantically IMing me in real time and in the aftermath, i almost envy her for the integrity of her break, the unabashed hurt and rage and confusion -- none of the careful detached i-am-fine-of-course-we-will-still-be-friends, none of the cold smooth placid front. at the same time, i wish just as strongly that she didn't have to go through it. which is better? a dull ache that lasts so long that it becomes an on/off switch, or a fiery pain that wrenches you? i've seen both. i just don't know. |
so i turned 19, and found a poem that a great guy named Hammad wrote me two years ago. the two events have no connection whatsoever, but i love this poem. i <3> For Anni
The smooth jade loop around your neck, A green porthole To your tender heart Suspended sweetly by a thin red rope Outlines the fine points Of your slender frame. But above all this Your smiling eyes; And all that looms behind them The clever mind of curious chill. The innocence of await. Not to mention your fabulous fanny You are beautiful, my friend Anni. Smile and wave as I Pass you by and stammer so For all the joy, thanks |
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