Silence is Hidden

Nora once asked me to describe my perfect gift.  Always evasive, I only offered up, “Spending time with you, my love.”

As she walked off in a huff, I meditated on materialism and waited thirty minutes (allowing her ample time to pout) before gently knocking on our bedroom door.

“Can I come in?”

“Only if you give me a straight answer.  Come on, what would be your perfect gift.  What do you really want?”

What I really wanted was space and silence.  I wanted to be alone and not speak to anyone for an extended period of time.  However, when one is in a relationship, this is often not an acceptable answer.  As was now the case.

Gift-giving was Nora’s love language.  These was this new-age-y book she once showed me that asserted that we all have our love languages and that gift-giving was hers.  We had been together for almost four years and she never ceased to amaze me with her efforts in gift-giving.  She was obsessed with finding me the perfect gift.

Trips to Mexico, sky-diving lessons, wine-tastings—these gifts were all thoughtful and appreciated, but silence is what I craved.

I looked down into her sparkling hazel eyes.

“Silence.  That’s what I really want.”

She let the weight of the words fall into her ears carefully.

“Silence?  You want silence?  How can I give you silence?”

At least she wasn’t angry.  Yet.  I took her hand.

“Here, I want to show you something.”

I guided her into my home office and tentatively opened the top right drawer, extracting a brochure.

“There’s a monastery about 200 miles from here.  You can stay there in exchange for working on the grounds.  And you take a vow of silence while you’re there.  You don’t speak.”

She looked up into my eyes.  I was almost shaking, not sure how she would react.

“This—this is what you want?”

I nodded.

“How can I give you this?”  She turned the brochure over in her hands, examining all the pages.  “It doesn’t cost anything.  I can’t buy it for you.”

“I’d just like to go.  Try it out.  You giving your permission would be the gift, I suppose,” I answered hopefully.

Eyebrows furrowed, she regarded the brochure once more, finally shrugging her shoulders.

“Well, of course.  If going here would make you happy, of course you can go.  You don’t need my permission.”

I hugged Nora with great force.

She laughed.

“If I had known this is what would make you happy, I would have booked this trip for you long ago.”

I went away to relish my gift of silence.  When I returned, I was surprised at how much I had to tell Nora.   Most importantly:

“Thank you.”

Red or Pink?

Tags

Roses, Seattle

The old, heavyset Indian man sits outside the vegan café selling single long-stem roses.  He is clad in khaki and seems incongruous in Capitol Hill.  Patrons walking into the shared entryway nestled between Plum Bistro and La Spiga are accosted by his piercing voice.  At first, it sounds like he’s calling out “Excuse me?!”

If you make enough money to be eating at one of these locations, your first instinct is probably to pass him by without comment. Your eyes glaze over and your ears become plugged.  Unless you are a particularly benevolent member of society.  Or very curious.

Upon closer inspection, the cartoonish bouquet of individually wrapped long-stemmed roses becomes perplexing.  Collectively, the mass of roses could be a giant’s corsage.  Maybe he’s asking if you want to buy one of the many roses sitting next to him.

If you listen very carefully, you can discern the words coming out of his mouth in rapid speed and pitch.

“Red or PINK?!”

“Red or PINK?!”

“Red or PINK?!”

He asks this of everyone who enters.

“Red or PINK?!”

It has the percussive nature of a shot being sounded.  Or perhaps Tourettes.

Occasionally, the old, heavyset Indian man leaves his post and pile of roses to go smoke a cigarette by machine that dispenses parking stickers for street parking.  The cigarette is a meditation.  Breathing out smoke onto the dark, rainy winter night, he feels peaceful.

Then it’s back to the grind.  Back to screaming “Red or PINK?!”  Back to the never-ending deluge of Capitol Hill hipsters that unnerve him with their androgyny.  They are not his customers.  Usually, it’s middle-aged men who sneak out of either restaurant on the pretext of going to the bathroom.  The transaction is rushed in low-tones and if he’s lucky, they might not ask for change.

On a good night, he gets enough money to buy another pack of cigarettes.   Or to stop in the International District and pick up some curry on the bus ride back to the shelter in Pioneer Square.

On the coldest of winter nights, he thinks about buying a phone card to try and reach his daughter in Chicago.   Lila.   She has long since Americanized her name to Lily.  After he turned 60, he seemed to loose the gift of speech, so when he calls her, she recognizes his silence and will indulge his listening for fifteen or twenty minutes.

She talks about his grandchildren, whom he has never seen.  They are in school now.  The boy is seven and likes to draw airplanes.  The girl is 5 and likes to play in the mud.  Her husband’s dental practice is picking up, and she writes for newspapers and magazines.

“Hopefully, we can fly out to Seattle for the holidays, Dad.  Or maybe you can fly here.”

But they both know that isn’t likely.

“I’m still working on your spy story, Dad.  I’ll send it to you when it’s finished.  Is it still the same address?  Seattle’s Union Gospel Mission, 318 2^nd Avenue?”

He murmurs something sounds like yes and she is satisfied.

“Take care of yourself, Dad.  I love you.”

He does not feel like making one of these calls tonight.  Instead, he chooses cigarettes and curry.  They offer three meals a day at the shelter, but none of the food is as bold as curry.

He goes to his favorite little hole in the wall Indian place.  He carefully places all of his roses on the counter by the window and sits down.  The young Indian woman already knows his order and soon brings him a steaming bowl.

At first, he just smells.  Inhales coriander, ginger, chili, fennel.  Inhales childhood.  Inhales first love.  Inhales the birth of his daughter.  Inhales all the pleasant memories that are warm and simple.

When he is satisfied, he takes his first bite.  Spicy warmth and familiarity cascade past his tongue and down into his throat.  He savors every bite.  He licks the bowl clean.

He always leaves his waitress a pink rose.  At first, she protested politely.  Now she looks forward to the nights he comes into the restaurant.  He reminds her of her grandfather who passed away.  After the roses have lost their vitality, she hangs them upside down and dries the petals meticulously for some unknown purpose.

If it’s not too cold out, he will walk the eight blocks from the International District to Pioneer Square.  The khaki newsboy cap keeps his balding head warm.

He retires to his small grey room on the second floor and listens to spy novels on tape.  His favorites are those written by Ian Fleming and John Le Carré. He finds the tapes he wants by looking for the sticker with a red magnifying glass on the plastic spine.

He falls asleep to the escapades of James Bond and George Smiley and remembers fondly the adventures he had when he was young.

The next day he wakes up and does it all over again.  The morning visit to Seattle Public Library, followed by the bus ride up to Capitol Hill with his roses.

“Red or PINK?!”

“Red or PINK?!”

“Red or PINK?!”

Believe it or not, he is happy.  He is not alone.  He has his spy stories.  He has his roses.  He has Seattle.

How to Make Your Own Ugly Christmas Sweater

Tags

Christmas, crafting

Katy Perry’s ugly Christmas sweater is Dolce and Gabbana. But yours doesn’t have to be.

Christmas is almost upon us.  And although I know many ugly Christmas sweater parties have already occurred, I offer up this crafty primer for those who still have a soirée of this nature to attend and have waited until the last minute.

Step 1: Choose your sweater.

Head into your local thrift store and find a sweater that fits you and is red, green, gold, silver or white.  If there are any ugly Christmas sweaters left, grab one of those.

Step 2: Choose your embellishments.  

Basically, anything that you can somehow attach to your sweater is fair game.  Think outside the box.  That ziplock bag full of plastic snowflakes for $1.50?  Sold!  The tackier the better.  Look in both the Christmas section and also the craft section.  Ornaments, Christmas lights, Santa hats, stuffed animals, glitter pens, the sky’s the limit!

Step 3: Choose your adhesive(s).

Now, I am not a seamstress.  But I can sew a button back on after it’s fallen off.  If you grab a needle and thread (the color of the sweater), a hot glue gun and duct tape, you should be able to stick your trashy Christmas bling onto your sweater.

Step 4: Assemble your masterpiece.

I suggest alcohol for this step.  Down a glass of your favorite wine, beer or cocktail to lubricate and encourage your creative spirit to come out to play.  Try not to burn or prick your fingers and go nuts.

Step 5: It’s all about presentation.

Now that you’ve assembled your ugly Christmas sweater, it’s all about how you wear it. Garish Christmas-colored make-up and accessories are encouraged.  (Bonus points for rocking a side ponytail secured by a scrunchy.)

Step 6: Have fun.

This should go without saying, but your efforts in assembling your ugly sweater are all for naught if you don’t have any fun at the party.  Even if you don’t win the ugly sweater contest, you have created a couture Christmas garment that will prevent you from having to race around finding an ugly Christmas sweater ever again.

National Geographic: Northwest Hipster

Observe the elusive hipster
in his natural habitat.
Wearing the tribal garb
of Chucks, skinny jeans
and flannel–gauges and
other various piercings
for the more exotic
members of the species.
Note the self-rolled
cigarette, filled with
American Spirit tobacco
in one hand, and the
can of Pabst Blue Ribbon
in the other.
This species migrates
by using public transportation
or bicycles.
Dwellings tend to be
a delicate ecosystem
filled with many
inhabitants, none of which
has a full time job.
Mating rituals are
complex: the male
usually exhibits
indifference to gain
the attention of the female.
She will then employ
text messaging to gain
the approval of others
in her tribe, then a
strategy, usually involving
research of Wikipedia
entries of now defunct
punk bands, which
originated in Seattle
or Portland.
The female hunts the male
for several weeks by
“hanging out or whatever”
until trust is achieved.
Soon after follows
fondling and coitus,
a 6-week courtship
which disintegrates
because of the male’s
unwillingness to change
the style of his facial hair.
If a female hipster
brings a fetus to full-term,
parenthood usually transforms
both partners out of hipster hood
to become hip parents instead.

(These are incomplete field notes,
and I intend to continue my observations
of the species.)

 

 

O Castle! My Castle!

(So, I was watching episodes of Castle all day. And that made me look up Nathan Fillion’s IMDB profile. Which made me challenge myself to write a poem that includes all the titles from that profile. Enjoy.)

There was an ordeal in the attic–
strange and rich creatures from another planet
pilfered and ransacked through dusty crates.
Authorities tried to put a spin on it.
City police officers offered their
total security. I cuddled up with my
pomerianian, Beckett, and we watched Saving Private Ryan
to take our minds off this extraterrestrial debacle.
The outer limits of our personal bubbles
had been invaded, flung wide open like dracula’s coffin.
At least 2000 plausible explanations were offered up
between me and Beckett, who thought she was
king of the hill, but is actually only pup of the house.
Two guys, a girl and a pizza placed upon the coffee table,
we tried to get to the bottom of it all. Glenn suggested
we escape to Pasadena. Bill jokingly offered up Alligator Point.
We couldn’t come to any conclusions and instead decided to
watch old episodes of Buffy. Which turned into a
Joss Whedon marathon, and pretty soon, we were all drunk
on tequila and looking up FOX network customer service numbers
to complain yet again about Firefly being cancelled.
Walking outside to take Beckett for her nightly bathroom break,
I regarded the pool, walking to the water’s edge.
The inflatable island from last night’s party floated
back and forth, an oasis of mismatch. Glenn brought out the
house phone–it was a call from a detective from the Hollywood Division,
saying that the robbery had been committed by extras from an alien film
high on meth and on a criminal outing. “Riley, Jade, Empire, those were
the names of the perps. Do you want to press charges?”
“No, as long as they return what they took, I’ll have serenity.”
Hanging up, I felt as though justice, leagues of justice, had been served.
Beckett decided to slither out from the pool, a lost, wet fur ball.
After she had shaken herself out, she bristled her ears back
and growled as though she had heard white noise.
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “The motion light is what startled you.”
Bill, who was really smashed, started calling out for a waitress.
Glenn decided to put him to bed. I thought about taking Beckett out
for a midnight drive to see the stars, as we all have only one life to live,
but it was late, and I had consumed too much tequila. Glen started playing
Halo 3 after he had put Bill to bed, and that was my cue to head upstairs.
I thought about sexting the trucker I had met the weekend before,
but it had been a long night and I didn’t want to seem desperate.
Housewives everywhere sat up drinking wine and picturing jello wrestling
matches between Dr. Horrible and Captain Hammer. After scanning cable
for some PG porn, I instead dreamt about becoming Wonder Woman
and kicking Superman’s ass. I thought about venturing downstairs
to steal my brother’s Green Lantern figurine, but it wasn’t worth it
for all the trouble it would cause the morning after.
Husbands secretly turn Robot Chicken on after their wives have
fallen asleep. Either that, or read Justice League comics
under the covers with a flashlight. “America, Dad…sometimes it feels
like there’s much ado about nothing.” I start to write to my father.
But when I’ll is said and done, I’m still the queen of my castle.

Drag Snapshots

Tags

drag queens, RuPaul's Drag Race

Sharon Needles

Insert contacts: make eyes bright icy blue.
Show starts in 45 minutes.
Saffron and almond scents from hairspray
creates an aerosol atmosphere that hangs like manufactured snow.
“The time has come for you to lip-sync for your life.”
In this world, RuPaul is both god and goddess.
Lightly apply eyelash glue until tacky,
blowing carefully upon it, then sticking
another piece of the illusion on.
Eyes open, eyes shut. A flutter, then they adhere.
Androgyny is the new world order.
Now, let the face bake.
The mask of makeup heats on the skillet of ivory.
Pair of hose, sequined dress, six-inch pumps.
This kind of drag is no different from any other–
Although perhaps more honest.

Love Letters Only

A ways past the highway marker that reads 23
there is a purple mailbox that reads
(in pink letters)
LOVE LETTERS ONLY.
Several hearts accent the message of the mailbox.
The mailman has to rubber band bills and junk mail
to the outside of the purple box.
If he tries to put them in, they just fly out.
Love letters have come from as far away as Sweeden
and as nearby as the neighbors’s five year old daughter.
All blonde braids and saddle shoes, she proudly offers
the purple mailbox a love letter a day.
Usually a crayon drawing of smiles, hearts and/or sunshine.
When she is sick, she asks her mother to do it.
Her mother marvels at her dedication.
Wonders what she did to deserve
such a kind-hearted girl
who has made it her life’s mission
to fling love into the world.

Summers with Hirschfeld

I have always frequented libraries.
I think of them as a third parent.
When I was 7, I was obsessed with Garfield.
I spend hours poring over comics,
mimicking pencil strokes
until I could draw that
fat orange tabby with perfection.
I middle school, I favored Hirschfeld.
I spent my summer vacation pouring over his drawings.
Playing hide and seek with the elusive “Nina”
was infinitely better
than trying to locate Waldo.
Waldo was a fool and not worth my time.
Kevin Kline, Elizabeth Taylor, Madeline Kahn–
I would stack towers of “The Best of American Theatre”
at a table and it became my office.
I was a theatrical anthropologist.
Tracing faces with my black Bic pen.
Not by placing paper directly over the drawings,
but my staring at them intensely,
repeating the same lines, curves and points
as Hirschfeld.
Chins, eyebrows, noses, lips.
I drew my way through three decades of theatre.

It was the first world to which I truly belonged.

Mysteries for My Father

 

“The new James Bond looks like a Polish plumber!”
my father declares.
We have been solving mysteries together
since I was a child:
how to multiply decimals,
the adventures of Sherlock Holmes
and his nemesis Doctor Moriarty,
the cases of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.
And when I was old enough to
start watching PG-13 movies,
we would watch 007.
I had graduated to espionage.

We would watch in the darkened theatre.
If I was tired, I would rest my head on his shoulder.
He was always in flannel.
Always resting a worn baseball cap on his knee.
After the movie, always Mexican food or pizza.

When I had outgrown mini-golf
and preferred movie musicals
and romantic comedies
to erudite spies
and fallen women–
we had less common ground.

My father still reads mysteries voraciously.
Now they are large-print. The Cat Who series,
Tony Hillerman, whatever the Minoqua public library
has stocked this week.

Men are now my mysteries.
I would like to see Mr. Bond
navigate the perils of online dating.
Women would reject his profile
for shirtless pictures, posing with guns
and lack of specific information.

I remember being 17 and sitting
in the mystery section of
a Barnes and Noble, bawling my eyes out,
not understanding why no one had asked me to prom.
Looking up at my father with teary eyes,
hoping that he could unlock the secret
to this mystery.
Instead he looked at the floor and said,
“I don’t know what to tell you, Katherine.”

The best detectives and spies
have little insight
into why we love
who we love.

“The new James Bond looks like a Polish plumber!”
my dad says over the phone.
I chuckle.
“Yeah, dad. He sure does.”

Religion by Gaga

I thought that living in a rain shadow
would protect me from Jehovah’s Witnesses
but they came and found me
as I was dancing at the beach,
bumping and grinding to Lady Gaga
as is my religion.
They handed me a pamphlet.
The heading read:
“Do you want to know the truth?”
And I wish, in retrospect,
that instead of smiling and nodding politely
I would have said something along the lines of:
“Do YOU want to know the truth? Truth is,
you are bugging me as I am blessing out
to the beat of Born This Way or Bad Romance.
I’m not sure if there is a god, but if there is,
I think that Lady Gaga is as good a deity as any.
Because whomever I pledge allegiance to
will be tolerant and wear leopard print.”
I have no plans to bust into one of their meetings
with a boom box blasting strains of Gaga.
But I have purchased a mini eliptical machine
on Amazon.com so henceforth I may worship
and exercise in peace.