Tense audience members, in active learning auditorium classes,
all crammed together.
In the first few days there were times that I felt genuinely lost.
I wasn’t used to processing everything,
especially technical things, in French.
On day two, one guy, looking askance, said,
‘That was confusing, right?’ Which was a relief.
On day three, Charles, watching me via the rear-view mirror,
said, “Trust the process, kid-0.”
And eventually, around day four, I started to find my footing.

Shall we wax, free-versely, poetic?

Who has it worse than a physician?
There’s no sleeping in that business,
and the physician’s wisdom, press'd with caution, is seldom desired or given careful attention.
Surely, I’ve heard it reasoned, those who applaud pristine health are but abusing God's patience.
But what else remains, for learned men - the priesthood, with its beguiling, terrestrial proverbs?
​​That idea’s a purgative. And I am female.
Besides, they’ve erased much of the good will that came out of Nazareth.
.
.
Songs for this
Welcome to the Jungle (808 Remix) by Freedom Dub
Easy Way Out (version française) by Mariama

Do angels, those exchequers
of heaven’s golden shores,
have hearts or humor
as they focus on us with
their greedy, eternal attention?

They must be well-acquainted
with vice and the offending elements
of our ingrained, mortal weaknesses.

I’ve read those frampold canaries
- at man’s creation - coveted the gift
of choice, cruelly denied them - freedoms
that can corrupt the weak and too human.

How do those singers of exquisite songs
still find worthy peers to invite home
unless they pity, forgive or grant
endless sufferance which must,
at least in practice, resemble love.

Doot do, doot doot - News FLASH from boredom central.

I’ve got extra New Year plans.
My Ladybug & Cat Noir Onesie pajamas are at the ready.
I’ve got all six Totinos pizza roll flavors and a 12 pack of Grape soda.
My Nintendo switch is charged and I have 4 screens for Zooming.
If you have something for me - slip it under the door.
I’m staying up this New Years to be sure 2020 leaves.

*Happy New Years everyone!

Don't let anyone
with bad eyebrows give you life
advice - it ends badly.

I don't mind seeing my ex with
someone else - I usually donate
unused things to the less fortunate.

I wonder how many
calories I burn jumping
to wrong conclusions.

simply awake
No music lulls
No quiet snoozes
No counting naps
No stretching tires
My clock taunts me
No comfort lullabies
No breathing relaxes
Pajamas strangle me
No coolness soothes
No meditation stupors
No visualization sleeps
No position tranquilizes
No supplements sedate
No aromatherapy calms
or finger painting slumbers
I am insomnia’s vigilant sentry.
Where, oh where's the sandman?

I’m so excited about this election
about America and our direction

We’ll trust old men
to make big decisions
elderly men
of compassion and vision

Men who were there
when the work was done
when we went to the moon
and warred in Vietnam

A glorious age is at hand
we’ll be safe in those trembling hands

One who launched an insidious insurrection
Another who can’t follow simple directions

They will grasp what needs to be done,
our land will be free and efficiently run

We’ll trust old men
who think with precision
to keep us safe
with complex decisions

Men who were there
when the work was done
promoting corporate advantage
and environmental damage

A glorious age is at hand
we’ll be safe in those trembling hands

I’m so excited about this election
about America and our direction

As we all know, April is “National Poetry Month.”
Last year’s Poetry month, was like a month-long superbowl.
We all enjoyed the fireworks, the rhyming-parades,
live televised poetry jams and interpretive dances (ick).

Speaking about last year, once again, the Academy of American Poets
has asked me to take the month off - for ”the sake of  poets everywhere.”

“Dear Anais
Don’t betray us.
April’s our month to shine.
We’re asking you to confine,
your poetry to the other 11 months,
please listen to us - just this once.
Your poetry isn’t that popular,
and we think your work is subtacular.”

They’d rhymed it, of course.

I was moved.
I mean, if you write my kind of poetry,
It’s a good idea to keep moving,

Happy Poetry Month!

I swear, my parents act like they were never teens in a pandemic growing up.

I was watching “Perry Mason,” an HBO show set in the 1930s. Perry gets mail out of his mailbox and I think “no GLOVES??” This pandemic has a hold of me.

6:30am  I’m finishing my shower - wrapping my hair in a towel.
Mom: from my room “I have something for you!”
Me: “OK.” (I’m curious)
I step out of the shower, wrap on a towel, and my mom steps up and gives me a flu shot without so much as a “by your leave.”  Dr. Surprise strikes again.
My arm hurts  =/

Writing a paper, on my computer, in class - I try to use the perfect word but I spell it so badly the spell checker gives up and in effect, says “I got nothin’.” I switch words.

Telling a girl to calm down is like trying to put a cat in a tub.
My parents think every guy I talk to is my boyfriend.
If I’m texting and smiling my parents think I have a boyfriend.
I say, I don’t know” when I don’t care.

For ALL of its downsides virtual school is better because:
  My two BFF and I have a facetime call going ALL school day so
    we can say snarky things about everyone..
  I can listen to music on my headphones during classes.
  I have multiple screens so I can web-surf during classes.
  I don’t have to wear shoes or a skirt!
  I can put a video up so it looks like I’m paying attention.
  I can snack/take a bathroom break whenever I want to.
  I don’t have to carry a backpack or make locker stops.
  I can be late or leave early and blame it on “tech issues”.

You can think of this
pandemic as an novel
slowly unfolding.

We are characters
caught up in the plot - we're the
heroes and villains.

We bring our desires,
educations, biases and
social reflexes.

All the small sins and
great vanities of mankind
have a home in us.

The challenges we
face, in chapters yet turned
would scare the angels.

Will, we, the people,
psychologically flinch
in this, our great hour?

If so, expect no
Crispian Day speech of legend
to mark our passing.

So much to say
You’re the first one I blame
The first one I shower with anger
You’re the first one I yell at
But you’re the first one I run to
the first one I look for
the first one I need to hug
the first one I ever loved
I love you mom
Happy Birthday

Life isn’t a poem
dive in it, splash in it,
celebrate the refreshment,
like a bird in a puddle.

(a poem in Senryus)

Let’s rerun the play,
take up strings, so the puppets
can start fresh their dance.

Summon the old ghosts—
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
—pronounce them reborn.

Recall the actors,
lead horses from their pastures,
raise the curtains.

Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Viola love anew.

Old, ever-hallowed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stage.

Human suffering,
live—don’t fret, you won’t miss it
—it’ll come to you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
End of the innocence by Don Henley
The Perfect Idiot by Fievel Is Glauque

Are we really in complete, control of our heart?
What about natural selection?

True to its own necessities
its as inescapable as mica in marble
its influence uncoiling
throughout our everyday existence.

The emotional future decided by pheromones
by unconscious laws of pattern, form and complexity.
Decisions independent of what is fleeting and fashionable,
based on actions without social polish.

Natural selection in the age of lasers,
terrifying hierarchies of secret signals.
Layers of strangeness glinting and winking at us.
Chemical commands by tide of electrical impulse to warm the heart.

To end one love in favor of another.
The choosing of one heart over another,
as if, at my age, the situation demanded such sacrifice.
To refocus the heart like the skipping of a pebble
from one spot to another. Self inflicted sabotage.. dreadful gamble..

When it came to love
I had no real plan
I know I wanted to connect in an intimate way
with experimentation and playfulness

I was short on experience
there was a pandemic
I’d had few ‘at-bats’
that’s a sports metaphor

Much of it seemed surreal and abstract
like we’d entered another realm of everyday places
there was a subtle unpredictability
that was unfiltered, instinctive and unapologetically unhinged

freedom permeated every element
still, our collaboration allowed for honest conversation
I remember asking, “What are we doing?”
Thinking back, It underlined how vastly different our two experiences were
.
.
Songs for this:
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee  [E]
Blur by embrs & astralcurrent

I have this talent - I can create an ex-boyfriend out of thin air. snapping fingers

Lisa and I had just gotten back to school from Thanksgiving break and my soon to be ex-study-partner arrives all passively-angry - with that withering, unmistakable, male-balance of harshness and ambivalence. I don’t even know what triggered his moral panic.

I was bewildered at first. “We aren't dating,” I said, “we're study-partners.” We’d agreed early on and I saw the relationship as defined - with a periodt. He, apparently, saw it as more of an ellipsis…

Then, we kissed one night. We were happy because we’d slammed the midterms. I thought of It as a “champagne kiss” moment of celebration - but it was a mistake that seemed to break some spell between us.

After that, I could never utter the “yes” he wanted and our friendship momentum stalled.

You could say that I’ve been slowly contracting around him to ordinariness - like an infatuation balloon deflating into disappointment.

Still, I feel this stupid, hurtful sense of loss. Why am I so bad with guys?? Perhaps I should take the scientific approach and conduct exit-interviews.

I’d LIKE to have a boyfriend, sometimes, but all I can see are negative
consequences - and who has the TIME?  Most nights, when my homework is finished, there’s only a few hours left over for sleep.

He left me in a lurch, but I went through my class list and managed to study-group-up before finals (thank God).

“I’m going to become a nun,” I announce to no one in particular between Sprite sips.

“You’re Catholic, I suppose you could,” Lisa says, with a mouth half full of pizza.

“Why do socially distant guys look extra attractive?” I ask dazedly.

I reach my hand out slowly - towards a sweaty, chiseled, guy entering the pizza place, who looks like he’s just coming from the gym - like someone lost in the desert reaches for a mirage of water.

“No!” Lisa says, protectively lowering my arm “you’ll just have to put him back.”

I sigh. “I want to do something interesting or shameless.” I say.

“Don’t we ALL.” Lisa agrees, knowing all we have ahead is 4 hours of reading.

Girls have naughty thoughts,
like boys, but we're better at
hiding evidence.

The evening stars were gone, replaced
by a spreading, ominous purple bruise of cloud.
When the wind rose, in sudden violent
crisscrossing gusts, everything went into motion.

White cabanas shook, like staked swans
flapping to fly, lavender bushes thrashed
their thorny arms as if in panic, umbrella pines
creaked and writhed like tethered balloons.

Lightning lit the winding, stony stairs, like ornamental
neon lights, as we’d run up the path from the beach.
Shockwaves of thunder accompanied the flashes
- there was no lag - the storm was there and upon us.

We were laughing and screaming, like children
chased through a dark Halloween funhouse.
The first, fat drops of rain popped behind us,
like a giant’s, arrhythmic, snapping fingers.

As we reached the open, French, louvered doors,
that led from our suite down to the shoreline,
we body-slammed them against the tempest.

And braced them fully closed with our backs, as if to vilify the
natural courses of wind and rain with an animal will to break in.

The lashing monsoon heralded our urgent, stormy union.
We were like the storm - insistent, wild and untamed.
All was revealed in that flashing, tempestuous darkness
as need, euphoria and lightning lit the naked night
.
.
A song for this:
Walk Between Raindrops by Donald Fagen
Hurricane Waters by Citizen Cope

Three days in - three days of school - and it’s like I never left.

In school, you can get oversaturated with screens. I like books.
They have a sense of permanence, they don’t glare back at you,
and I want something physical I can grip, markup and push off
the bed onto the floor when I get over it.

After three days of class, I’m asking (no one in particular), "Are we there yet?"

I can speed-read if I have a pointer - I use cocktail picks (swizzle sticks?) - you know, the little olive skewers you get in a martini? I have a collection from all over the world.

If I go to a bar and they have nice swizzle sticks, I’ll gather a few up. “What are you DOing,” Karen, (Lisa’s mom) asked me as I scarfed up several from patron’s empty glasses at the elegant, Refinery Rooftop bar in Manhattan.

“I have a TON of reading to do,” I explained, helpfully.
“Don’t even ask,” Lisa shrugged, rolling her eyes, when her mom looked confused.

The trick to speed reading is your eyes (and brain) pickup more than you realize and people tend to pronounce things, in their minds, as they read, which REALLY slows you down. So, you swivel the pointer down the page, following the pointer with your eyes, and Walla!

You can’t do THAT with a computer screen. You need a book, and when you have 2 or 3 hundred pages (or more) a night to read, you can’t just hold your breath and refuse - like a seven-year-old - can you? Seriously, I mean, can we? I’m asking - though it’s probably a little late (senior year).

Now, of course, not just any appetizer toothpick or fruit pick will do - the selection process can be rather byzantine. They must be a certain length, about 2 inches longer than my finger, so my hand doesn’t block the text, and square ones are the easiest to grip. Finally, if they have a little arrow-point on the tip? Well, that’s true love.

The problem is, I can get a little intense when reading and they tend to break. When my roommates hear me exclaim, “God **** it!” At 2am. They usually know why.
.
.
A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls

When a class is boring, the air can feel close and rebreathed - not a comfortable feeling for a COVID child. When the class is finally over, it’s like you’ve escaped something.

Did you know an hour has 60 minutes because ancient Babylonians used a seximal system? (base six).

The class I was in was small, just eight of us around a table in a small room (four students were missing that day) and somehow the class had wandered into the unstable, waring, state of the world.

The professor ended his unscheduled thought, on the result of nuclear war, by saying, “After the nuclear exchanges, when cockroaches take over..”

“No,” I interrupted - it was a flashbulb moment - an impulse. I don’t usually interrupt professors, “Ants. Ants would take over - they’re mobile super-organisms, cockroaches are just meat to them.”

His smile and nod of approval felt warm and cozy, as if my emotions had a texture and temperature - but I knew it was something assigned to me briefly, like a motel room.

Nuclear survival isn’t exactly my bailiwick, I’m not sure where I picked that thought up or why I had the confidence to offer it. Confidence is a thin lever to work with when talking to a professor. I’ve seen professors crush brash students.

The bell rang, I had survived, and Leong was waiting for me in the hall. The crowd in the hall was moving on toward their classes, like water splashing in every direction. Leong barked a laugh. “What?” I asked.

“Neh,” she said, waving her hand (meaning forget it).
“What?” I asked again.
“When I was little, I would visit my grandparents' farm, in Shandong (province, China). They would call their cows in with a bell,” she said, motioning, with both hands to include the crowded hall.
“We’re the most privileged cows in the universe,” she suggested smilingly.
“I suppose we are,” I agreed, as we passed out into a wind as cold and harsh as witches' breath.

Nicotine is making a comeback
analog cigarettes are making a comeback
so many students are nicotine positive.

Every girl has Zyn by her drink at the bar
which used to be seen as a BRO-y vibe.
I’m not taking a view, I’m unbothered by it.

because

I’m hooked as well - I might as well admit it.
I’m into placebos these days and and I’m abjectly
rendered dumb by their unspeakable pleasures.

I went to an acapella concert last night and ***!
I was mollywhopped (knocked out).
.
.
Acapella songs for this:
They - The Harvard-Radcliffe Veritones
Finesse (Remix) by The SoCal VoCals
Viva La Vida by Buffalo Chips
24k Magic by Acasola
.
....
Trump has everyone quivering
he cornholed those cowards at CBS
but you know who ain’t backing down?
South Park. I LOVE those guys.
Trigger warning. This is EXPLICIT and hilarious.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Afetnw70S04
...

We were calculating theoretical yields on chemcollective
and somehow we ended up dancing to ”go left.”

We were finding oxidation numbers on labster
but somehow we started laughing.

We were balancing chemical equations on PhET
but now we’re singing “World we created” with hair-bush microphones.

Believe your competence - be impressed with your progress.
Attack every challenge with self-contained ease.
Armor yourself with confidence.
You’ll like the way you enjoy it.

The virus will fade in the summer heat.
It's Trumps hoax folks - it’s a joke folks.

Drink your Lysol and get back on the street.
Look, it’s a hoax folks - it’s a joke folks.

We can trade those masks in for some caskets
Yes, it’s a hoax folks - you’ll be ok folks.

Send your kids to school - some will die, but that’s cool.
This is no hoax folks - some kids will die folks.

Or they’ll bring the virus right back to you.
Safety’s a joke folks - do the republican choke folks.

The average bill for ICU care - is 20K folks
chump change folks - just pay the man, folks

One Hundred and Fifty Thousand dead
But vote for Trump folks - if your family's alive folks

I had a dream.
I don’t remember most dreams.

I was cleaning the floors of heaven.
It seemed a mixed blessing,
I was in heaven, after all
but I was cleaning the floors.

It was a part time job,
I knew that intuitively.
I don’t mind house cleaning, heaven cleaning.
It’s calm work, kind of Zen.
Are we supposed to think of religions in heaven?

At first I scrubbed on my hands and knees.
The floors are soft in heaven, like golden gym mats.
Then I thought of it, and suddenly I had a swiffer-wet mop,
just like that - and the pad never wore out.

After a while, I had an iPod, and AirPods too.
Then a daiquiri - a banana daiquiri with a pastel rainbow umbrella.
They make rapturous daiquiris in the hereafter - they never run out.
‘Heavenly,’ I thought, snorting out a dizzy laugh.
.
.
Songs for this:
The River of Dreams Billy Joel
If the Lord Wasn't Walking By My Side by Elvis Presley

virtual school moments (in senryus)

I forget that I'm
virtual school, because I'm
really in my room.

And start brushing my
hair or singing a song I'm secretly
listening to - until friends text me!

My mom forgets I'm
in v.school, comes in, to yell
at me about dishes.

My cat walks across
my keyboard submitting "84;'/jifgvbzws"
as a test answer.

"It was a typo!," I complain,
“You still got an "A"," she says.
"But I LOST 4 points!!" Argh!
"Get a life!," she says.

What I love about Star Trek isn’t the plots or even the characters. It’s their casual, daily use of fantastic technologies (think replicators) - for them, the ordinary. It mirrors our own banal use of magic-like wireless, google searches and air travel.
We are marvelous monkeys.

I’m a teenager. I am new and agog - Jesus, I have a lot to learn. How are the many marvels that elevate our lives actually made? The millions of cars, the fuel distribution systems, our skyscrapers. Who thought of all this?
We’re marvelous monkeys.

We can almost cheat death - I saw Marilyn Monroe on TV last night.
It wasn't the real star - just the image of her purring sexuality. The her without the messy adopted-child neuroses, chemical dependencies, loneliness and deeper longings. But it's early days - her DNA is lying around here somewhere.
We’re marvelous monkeys.

American citizens in “bread-lines” to get little boxes of food. How desperate do you have to be to join that line? The sad, generous, little boxes of nutrition. We are all human, we all need our next breath and our children’s next meal. We all need shelter.

It’s a carnival of pleasure to mock human need. Tell me my mistake.

Watch our President’s Daily Briefing. He doesn’t mention bread-lines. He chooses not to. How counterfeit is his competence. No “fire side chat”, no promise of hope. How mean is this fat, grubby, “rich” man who s*s on golden toilet seats and ignores starving Americans’ desperation.

The tyrant’s plea, as the collapse begins, is “I’m not responsible”. Tell me my mistake.

We have lost our immeasurable strength. We are become callous. We are robbed, of our better, more generous selves by narrow focus, by zero sum greed. Our collapse will be just, like verse set down in primitive times when the margin of error was clear and understood.

It’s a calm discrimination to choose carelessness. Tell me my mistake.

This unfolding viral nightmare is but one of the fires along the tree line. The encroaching environmental disaster, the loss of our political system’s integrity, the militarization of police racism.

Maybe China will do better - if I’m reading my score card correctly, it looks like they’re up next as the world’s great superpower.

I’m surprised that I’m not upset,
I suppose It hasn’t hit me yet,
that I won’t be home this year,
and I won’t have my family near
for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Just another hard discipline
that, I suppose, is part of growing up,
but this tradition blowing up
is the comfort of home.

Still, I suppose I won’t be alone,
‘cause we’ll visit on our phones.

Do you think we’re the sort of girls to sit around on a Sunday night?
EAH (loud buzzer sound) you’d be wrong!!

What’s the opposite of seasonal depression - seasonal euphoria?
I’m self-diagnosing here, but I think I’ve got it.
I have all the symptoms:

Excessive happiness: a level of joy statistically improbable.
Compulsive smiling: grinning under the most mundane circumstances.
Irrational optimism: the feeling everything will turn out all right.
Compulsive socializing: relentlessly engaging in parties and outings.
Impulsive behavior: capricious decisions that lead to.. stuff.
Difficulty focusing: trouble concentrating on ‘serious subjects.’
Increased appetites: A craving for.. everything fun.

I have to call it. The symptoms are limpid, my diagnosis is:
Summer, seasonal euphoria, and it feels pretty good.
.
.
Songs for this:
Rooftop by Kelly Jones
The Game of Love by Katrina & the Waves
DeadBeat Club by The B-52s

Republican Vice-Presidential nominee JD Vance’s comments on the catastrophe, that is Donald Trump:

In DMs, he wondered whether Trump, “Is America’s ******.” (2015)
“Fellow Christians, everyone is watching us when we apologize for this man. Lord help us.” (2016)
“Donald Trump is a moral disaster.” (2016)
After one meeting with Trump, Vance wrote “My god what an idiot.” (2016)
“What percentage of the American population has DonaldTrump sexually assaulted?” (JD Vance, 2016)
Vance tweeted: “Trump makes people I care about afraid. Immigrants, Muslims, etc. Because of this I find him reprehensible. (2016)
“I’m definitely not gonna vote for Trump because I think that he’s projecting very complex problems onto simple villains.” (2016)
“Trump’s a total fraud who doesn’t care if regular people call him reprehensible.” (2017)
“Trump’s cultural ******, just another opioid for Middle America.” (2017)

On Twitter (X) Vance liked tweets saying Trump committed “serial ****** assault.”
and called Trump “One of USA’s most hated, villainous, and ******* celebs.”
.
.
A song for this:
The End of the Innocence by Don Henley

I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop-up, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dishtowel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that, and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their afterlives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their deaths were cruel or sudden - but I'm barely an adult - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  
You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.

Here comes school
again - so it's time for
some school Senryus.

Teacher: "This piece is
really good, what inspired you?"
Me: "the deadline date."

Hours of homework
are up next - 'cause seven hours
school just wasn't enough.

I've come to believe
that "studying" is a contraction
of "students dying".

Awkward moment: A
boy you don’t know that well says
“don’t I get a hug?”

When it stopped and I saw the target, a handsome 16 year old, part of me wanted to jump up and run. This party wasn’t with my usual friends - except my BFF Kim was there. These kids were 15 and maybe 16. I had just turned 14. We had been invited by an older girl-friend.

I couldn’t have been more nervous - the party had turned just short of terrifying - but there’s no way on God’s earth that I could chicken out. John and I shuffled towards each other on our knees.

He’s taller and as we drew together he bent toward me and I looked up - our lips touched, I felt his warm breath - WOW, his lips were soft.. I had to force myself not to pull back - my heart was pounding with the fear of embarrassment - what if he stopped - like, YUCK, and declared the whole idea an impossibly silly joke??

He didn’t - after a second I felt his strong left hand gently on the back of my head and he slightly rotated my head to the right and - OH, YEAH - we were able to draw deeper into the kiss (I’d seen that in MOVES - now I understood). His lips were so smooth, slightly slippery and warm - I was breathing WAY deeper then and felt a twining in interesting places.

His right hand pressed my lower back and he fetched me closer and, boy, we REALLY fit - I felt my ******* pressed to his chest - I wasn't sure what to do with my hands - they were sort of out to the side. His tongue fleetingly touched my lips and the tickle was electric.

My lips parted a little - he drew me even closer - his tongue playfully connected with mine and I seemed to short circuit - I drew in breath sharply, through my nose - which sounded enormously loud to me. WOAH, this was getting intense, I put my palms to his shoulders - should I push away??

“Time!,” the girl timing the kiss called.

We stopped actively kissing and he started easing off the pressure holding us together - I leaned back on his hands a bit as I searched for balance. Our kiss-seal broke and I gasped a little, which fortunately, sounded like a laugh and everyone laughed as we pulled apart. I glanced at his face and he was smiling warmly - I blushed explosively and looked down.

I put my right hand on my skirt as I scooched back in place and someone placed the bottle back on the center of the circle.

I was still looking down because I could tell my face was beet-red but my eyes found Kim, I smiled and give her a telepathic holy-COW. My first REAL kiss.

I left the circle before someone could spin me. There's no way that I was going to do that again.

Ok, so you're cooler
than me - logically, then...
I'm hotter than you.

Sometimes I
want to yell "I don't care"
in my mom's face.

When she blithely tries
to measure my sad prison
world to her own youth.

That prehistoric
reality, of phonebooths and
whatever, back then.

But I know those
words would freeze in the air
like a neon sign.

And very probably be
etched on my tombstone
as an epitaph.

My dorm room was bright this morning. It was disorienting.
The sky outside was a cloudless, striking neon blue.
The air was so crisp and clean, I could hardly feel it going in and out.
It all sparked to create a diffused sense of well-being.

Gone, it seems, were the concrete bunker feels of winter.

There's been some loose talk of ‘spring’ lately—I thought it was fake news—but from my third floor lattice windows I could see what looked like people outside. They were walking in the sunshine, riding bikes, throwing frisbees, kicking ​​hacky sacks, a couple was making out in the grass—it was a riot of activity.

Sunny skiffed out of her room (which looks like a hotel room trashed by some rock star), she seemed lighter than air. Three days ago, she announced there was someone of “particular personal significance,” in her life (translate: girlfriend).
Start the schmaltzy, string-drenched soundtrack—love is in the air.

Our challenge now is to carve out a poised and measured final act to our undergraduate years. There’s a scurrying, cynosure, beehive, hyperfocus to labs and classes, a heightened, almost cinematic quality, as if, up to now, we’ve only been practicing for some undefined ‘real thing.’
.
.
Songs for this:
Daylight by Harry Styles
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing by Michael McDonald
Dizzy (feat. Alfie Templeman & Thomas Headon) by chloe moriondo
.
.our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list.

Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

While we’re renaming things,
can we please rename “United States” to “AAAmerica.”
I know I’m tired of scrolling to the bottom of every pop-down country list.
And ARE we united? Really, even a little?

That awkward moment when you’re already said, “what?” three times,
and you still have no idea what the conversation is about, but you can tell,
by bouncy and eager expressions, that the topic is loaded. Never sit at the end of a table, dining halls get noisy.

Has a song ever been your safe place?
What if it keeps you warm in a storm,
by getting you up and movin’?

Oh, what about the inimitable effect of a handsome guy?
Now, I don’t engage in decorous affections,
but ‘Cute Soccer Guy’ (I’ve mentioned him before),
wakes us up, by just showing up, oh, we play it loose,
and all, but he makes all of our hearts beat a little faster.

P.S. Don’t you love the AI tool that lets us scrub others out of our pix?
.
.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]
The Trouble With Boys by Little Eva

Kim (one of my BFF) brightened with inspiration, “Oooo! Send him a **** pic!”
“I’m NOT going to sext a guy out of the BLUE,” I grumbled, indignantly.

Kim turned to her phone, “No, No, of COURSE not.” She said as she texted.

“Come on” she said, as she pulled me off my chair and out the door. We raced over, on foot, to my friend Bili’s house (two houses away). We entered without knocking (as usual) and ran upstairs.

Bili lay on her stomach on her unmade bed, fiddling with her phone, ankles up and crossed but she twisted up to attention when we came in.
“What should we do first?” She said, as if there were a million things to do.

They set upon me and had my regular clothes off in a heartbeat. Like all makeovers, this had a prelapsarian purity - the ritual stripping down to blankness before rebuilding.

They quickly went through about half of Bili’s closet - selecting just the right combination of ****** and classy clothes designed to ******.

They finally settled on a black slip under an ivory peignoir, stockings with garters and black strappy heels.

Kim twisted my hair up into a loose “Gibson Girl.”

“Hold still,” Bili said, as she grasped my chin and expertly blended red, gold and black glittery eyeshadows followed by lip liner and gloss. “This is just a quickie job,” she reminded me.

I stared at this strange version of myself in the vanity.

Kim frowned and looking around, she spread a pink scarf over the desk light to give the room a rosy glow. They went into studio mode - posing me in various ways from coquettish to bored lounging - suggesting expressions and taking endless pictures with my phone.

Finally, they were satisfied and handed me my phone.
“Shall we go through them?” Bili asked

“Naah,” I said, “I’ll go through ‘em and pick one - or two.”

Later, at home, I looked through them - I looked SO different - and I had to admit - **** even. But was that ME? I cringed, what if my mom saw these ******, Kardashian-like photos somewhere?

I never sent them. I thought I’d have to explain it to my girls.
“HA!” They laughed, “We KNEW you’d never use ‘em” Bili said, as Kim shook her head “Nope.”
“It was fun though!” We all agreed.
.
.
.
*NOTE: This is a pre-pandemic story from August 2019. I was 15 - the idea wasn’t to ****** this guy, it was to get his interest so he would ask me out 🙃

I thought I knew the sun.
I thought I had it tamed.

When it looked dim and weak,
I’d just blow on the flames.

But now my faith is shaken -
perhaps I was mistaken.

It seems the sun has ghosted me.
I miss those rays that roasted me.

(a piece from high school (I’ve been reorganizing))

I am simply at my worst these days.
Wild and unpredictable emotions rush on me - it's a place where the layer of control and composure are very thin.

This school year has been an endless working, always desperate, collection of days.

Each passing week seemed to unmask some flaw in me.. Like peeling a rotten onion.

Emotionally, spiritually, I’m drubbed—I droop like a hanged man.

It's not the work—I survive (piano) competitions and academic battles as if by some brand of magic..

No, it's more.
I have lost my goal. Like biblical engineers raising the tower of Babel on the plain of Sennaar, I am struck by a lack of focus. My direction, my original plans, seem shallow—I stand purposefully gelded.

It's worse because I'm somehow so much less who I want to be.

Like an asymptotic curve I constantly miss my ideal. I am hunted, internally, by my own inner voice, that ruthless, pittyless, seeker of perfection.. it lurks like the prowling wolf, stalk bent walk.. sifting my every thought, my every action for flaws.. until like the wing weary hunted pray I could almost welcome the killers warmth for sweet silence

In a mood somewhere between cowardly and courageous I finally approached my mom..

In a speech from the scaffold, I told her of my black, tight, treacherous spiral.. of my doubts about everything.

I expected the worst.. a disappointment, in less than cryptic, ciphered messages, a slow sharpening of her claws on me for endless shortcomings..

Instead, I got miracles..
as if rigid constellations had shifted.. an atmosphere of freedom earned.. and at least for that moment, the mom who used to sing me awake in the mornings as a girl.. and a delicious summer of rest.
.
.
A song for this:
Everyday Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_02.mp3

Like Harry Potter, the sorting hat (my mom)
has placed me in a ******, crimson colored school.
It’s disorienting, as I go about, the logos are wack.

Poor little rich girl
no beachside lovers
this interminable, scorching summer.

I’m swept up by scholastic spirit.
Can you hear it? Cause it’s deafening me,
on this cool, dry, Boston orientation day.

As we finished our morning 8k jog,
the sunrise blossomed, painting hot lava clouds
with hues of yellow, orange and pink.

We’re traipsing unfamiliar paths,
it’s not what we’re used to, the roads are uneven
and the architecture’s all boxy and wrong.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
Better After All by Jonatha Brooke
Now At Last by *****

Have you ever lived in a tall building? Dawn strikes suddenly and irradiates these glass-walled, high-rise rooms. Lisa showed me how quickly the thick windows - if you press your face against them - go from cold to warm in the morning's stark glare.

On the streets below, beneath the horizon, darkness remains
as if there were, briefly, two worlds separate but side by side -
one, a night place and the other bleached in fierce sunbeams.

The rooms have no curtains, just motorized shades that go up and down as needed - but in reality, they’re always up. Central Park is the only thing across the street and we’re so high up (50th floor) no one can see in. It’s odd, dressing in uncurtained, glass lined rooms or bathing in curtain-less bathrooms - there’s a titillating freedom to it.

I find myself imagining that we’re angels floating in the clouds,
looking down upon man and his creations - but then I’m reminded,
by vertigo or by digging a charger out of my luggage, that I’m just
a mortal, sporting a temporary visa to this high-rise heaven.
.
.
*ps
In proofing this before posting it, I had to smirk at how,
of all the qualities of high-rise life, I wrote about the
curtain-less feature and I wonder if that paints me either
a perv or a *****. I even debated deleting it, but *shrug

(a poem in Senryus)

You don’t have to count,
when you lose a boyfriend, you
know. There was just one.

He was gone before
I knew it - he wasn’t, you know,
******* or anything.

For a moment I
toy with saying, “Alexa, add
rope to my shopping list."

In High School boyfriends
come and go - it's like shopping
- where you return things.

Shakespeare said, “make
pieces of the beast and his
confederates”

My parents voted
today - filling out and then
casting their ballots.

It was a pleasing
privilege - even as an
anxious observer.

Their two small darts at
the heart of the snarling beast.
Saints let them strike true.

Spring semester has started.
We’re all immersed in the ritual of change
and totally committed to that descent into madness
to the relentless drabness, the flatness, the blandness
for the hours, days and weeks of study
and a bone-deep fatigue that’s actually funny

We’ll live at the edge of intensity
near the the corner of drudging
and gather around the printer
at the media center
like a secular rite of passage

I think I need a daily grind—to keep my mind busy.
What’s wrong with me, that when I’m on vacation, I miss it?
What if work/study is one of my bone-marrow-deep love languages?
.
.
Songs for this:
Happy Dreamer by Laid Back
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
(You're Better) Than Ever by illuminati hotties

we live behind palace walls

“I’m in love,”  I said, sighing into the fall-like, Paris afternoon, “I have to admit it.”

My 85 year old uncle Remy, gently stirring a pitcher of American martini he was conjuring, said, “You should marry an insignificant lawyer - if you’re going to have a cross-class love affair.”
Uncle Remy was a lawyer, of sorts, once.

“I think you’re leading the witness,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
“I’m in love with my Havaianas,” I clarified - my new, white, square-toed flip-flops.
“Besides, no one thinks in terms of class any more - and Peter and I are NOT an asymmetrical match or relationship or whatever.”

But it got me thinking. Half, or more, of what Uncle Remy says is politically incorrect. And I don’t judge him harshly..

I wrote, last week, about a guy who
(gasp) told me he found me attractive
like it was some crisis.

Hadn’t I schemed to get with Peter? (my bf).
And hadn’t he admitted that he’d schemed to get with me?

Was I ready to diagnose this guy as a walking red flag
- for a gentle admission of interest?
Because he's a big, intimidating guy?

What are the small, social rituals
we’re allowed to use - to signal desire?
Sure, buying someone a drink at a bar
- but what else? It’s a Catch-22.

Must every comment face the court of
public opinion, verbal consent protocols,
uni regulations and the behavior authorities?
Should we ban serendipity and spontaneity too?

Monday morning came and I didn’t ask to change seats
I moved my pencil back - a little.
He actually could use a bit more room than me.

I smiled a little, asked him about his weekend,
there’s no use in being unfriendly.
His name is Jacques (Jack).
.
.
Songs for this:
So Sorry by Lola Young [E]
The Hardest Part by Olivia Dean

My father died when I was seven.

Like a girl in a museum
I'm drawn to his pictures.
Those inadequate reproductions,
hypnotize me.

Pictures, what do they have to give?
Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look.
They exist, for me, like Cassandra of troy,
full of endless secrets that can never be told.

A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue
rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars
rushing, rushing... somewhere.

Why do  the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal
like the screaming of dogs in a devouring
dance of energy.

The nuclear family detonating
with death inches away.

Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?"
"I don't know."  7 year old me said.

The family man leaving a gravestone like a calling card.

Sometimes, just before I fall asleep,
memories of him - which I hold dear -
come to me like the ghosts of departed friends.
Image after image in the embracing dark.

Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?

Those images and that voice are strangely silent
in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened
to a world I'd rather reassemble.

I keep thinking about this summer—about starting a new school—and as soon as I do, I find myself internally monologuing and getting all high-schooly. It’s hoot, I know, but I can’t seem to help it.

‘You know,’ I think, as I’m eyeing myself in the bathroom mirror, ‘I’ll just turn up, looking good, feeling confident about myself and do whatever I want. I’ll go out, meet people and just be that vibe.

I was conflabing with Lisa last night, as we painted our toenails, “I’m a sufficient person, right? I asked rhetorically, “I can work out my thoughts alone, happily pass periods of solitude—nourishing my soul on YouTube.. Ooo, I like that color,” I said.
“You have personal power,” she assured me, as we admired her new nail polish color.

Growing up, my parents moved us, like luggage, about every two years. You can’t just be like, “This is actually crazy.” You’re forced to make a start, with a certain callousness of spirit, because uprooting your day-to-day domestic life, leaving friends, is hard. But I’d end up ok, I integrate quickly, as I love dropping into new cultures—people are so nuanced and clever.

So I've done this before, I have ‘lived experience,’ and I guess I can do it again. Still, I have this, what, adolescent nervousness, where my mind is spinning—even in dreams—planning my new first-day wardrobe, like a middle schooler, three months in advance (I’m a pre-crastinator).

In my heart, I know the source of my  untoward apprehension. Social precarity frightens me. I need other minds to rub up against and the constant stimulation and excitement of friends.

But I’m a 21 year old, grown woman—what’s wrong with me?
.
Songs for this:
These Days by Nico
find my way home MisterWives

Kim: “So, your plan was to win him with awkwardness?”
Me: “No, my plan is to be as sarcastic as humanly possible and see if he can handle it.”
Kim: “You are SO good at the interpersonal stuff”
Me:  “ I so hope college guys get me - I’m out of sync with these high school durks.“

A summer house-boat party - Matey - toss those cares overboard. The scout boat found a deserted cove so the party can be privately fierce.

The lake's broken reflections of moonlight look like jewels on black satin.

There are all kinds of drinks - ALL kinds - and herbal refreshments flare like lightning bugs. It isn’t long before perfumed bodies are flexing to music in the hot, moist, summer air.

Dance, swim and repeat as needed - cool water evaporates off bathing suits immediately - replaced by prickled sweat. It’s too hot - I’m staying in the water. There’s a group of us in tubes tied, spider-web like, around the boat.

There’s a guy who’s been watching us (Bili, my BFF, is my tube-mate). He’s extremely fair, and he’s gotten a bit too much sun giving him a feverish appearance.

At one point, I meet his gaze - to see what he’d do. His irises are a light blue that, in the lights, reflect like little blue flames - unwavering and alien.

I don’t mind a bit of attention - I think that’s how the system works - attraction, pursuit, investigation, and eventually seduction. But usually from someone we know. A stranger's attention can make one feel as if they're in enemy territory.

He gave me a nod and a smile that seemed like a proposition. I whisper about this “encounter” to Bili who takes command and just rows us over to him.

He’s older than I first thought - 22 - with cream-colored hair - thick, like horse mane and eyelashes and brows so pale they’re almost invisible. His name is “Noud” and he’s from Holland - at Georgia Tech studying atmospheric something or other - and girl watching.

“What are you doing at some random Georgia lake party?”, I ask.
“Soaking up the local atmosphere, of course.” He says. Which makes sense, I suppose, because that IS his chosen field.

I do an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, arbitrarily, which I think is pretty good (you can’t beat the classics) - Noud, does an even better one.
His, “I’m going to take [pause] you OUT” got a laugh.
His later, “You need to take [pause] that OFF” earned a “nuh-uh” finger wag.

Thanks to vaccinations, the atmosphere around here is a lot more fun.