Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones

It was a cool, overcast and windy Sunday morning in March 2014. We were about 50 miles from Paris, at my Grandmère’s (grandmother’s) farm. She lives in Paris, but she owns a Château and surrounding 1,100-hectare farm that she calls her “fall retreat.”

Between three and five hundred people work on the farm, the Château and its surrounding shops (some work is seasonal). The shops sell wool, cheese, wine and ice cream produced on the farm, as well as touristy things. Many of the employees live on the farm, rent free. Their homes, owned by the farm, form a hameau (village). I didn’t understand much of this at the time, I was 10 years old.

My Grandmère was dedicating a new store just off the village green. The green wasn’t square, like those in the UK and it didn’t have swings or a slide, as I’d hoped. You’d think I’d know a hamlet my Grandmère owned but this place was alien to me. I’d arrived as part of her entourage but as the presentation ground on, I got bored. So, I took Charles by the hand and off we went.

We (my little nuclear family) were living in the UK then and we were visiting Paris for the Easter holiday. The fall before, as the school year had started, a girl in my grade (4th grade or year 5 in the UK) had been kidnapped and murdered on her way home from school. My Grandmère was “having none of it,” and hired Charles, a burly, red-headed, just retired, ex-NYC cop, as my security, escort and practical nanny. He’d been with me for about half a year, at that point, and we’d become fast friends.

It was the height of the pre-summer, Easter season. In addition to the villagers, there were tourists everywhere, picnicking on the grass, visiting the shops and playing football (soccer). Most of the tourists seemed to have small children that ran around. The townspeople sat on benches, eating ice creams and playing dominoes or quoits, a horseshoes-like game, played on a sand pitch.

You couldn’t mistake the two groups - the natives and the tourists. The towns folk were plainly dressed, the women in simple smocks and sweaters, the men wearing slacks, tweed jackets, berets or tag hats. The tourists spoke other languages - there were Italians, Britts, Germans and even Americans - who wore sports logoed t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and baseball caps.

As Charles and I wandered around the village, I asked, “Can we get a sirop?” One of the most popular drinks, in France, is a grenadine sirop (soda). We stopped and as Charles bought us drinks, I wandered a way off. He found me, moments later, hanging from a tree limb, upside down, my hair sweeping the grass like a broom.

“Stop that,” he’d said, swooping me up and off the branch with his soda free hand and setting me alright. As he picked leaves out of my hair, he said, “Don’t wander away from me like that, you know better.” “Yes sir” I agreed. A moment later, he picked me up and placed me atop a low, four-foot parapet wall that ran around the village. I could feel sharp, rough stone edges through my cotton dress but I drank my sirop and didn’t complain.

“You saved me from the dragon,” I said, after my first few sips.
“What dragon?” he said.
“The dragon that had me in its teeth, over there.” I pointed at the tree where I’d been upside down.
“I saved you from yourself,” he said, as he looked around the square.
“That’s silly,” I announced, “how can someone need saving from themselves?”
“Oh, It happens all the time,” he said.

The event ended and as people began leaving, they filed by us on the sidewalk. The village men doffed their hats and the women nodded a quick curtsey as they passed. “Why are they doing THAT?” I asked Charles, “am I a princess?”
“No,” he snorted, “you’re no kind of princess. They’re doing it out of respect for your illustrious grandmother.” “Oh,” I said disappointedly.

A moment later our car pulled up and we were headed back to the city. “Did you have fun?” my Grandmère asked, “yes mam,” I answered. “Did you behave yourself?” She followed up. “Mostly,” I admitted. She nodded, pronouncing, “That’s how it should be,” as the limo turned onto the autoroute (expressway) and accelerated for lunch in Paris.

School uniforms
are the last, tired gasp of a
dying patriarchy.

You see a DARK bra
under my blouse? Oh, God! Who
knew girls wore those!

School uniforms, with
long sleeves, aren't made for
pandemic washing.

A guy told me that
girls in school uniforms are
a core **** motif.

I told him his grasp
of **** tropes must rival
that of our school board.

School uniforms are
meant to UNsex otherwise
provocative girls.

As if our entire
gender were attempting to
subvert algebra.

We plan, organize, gather and pack,
we fly - what liberty is this - to fly
like a weapon on the edge of heaven.

Having no power to do it ourselves
we trust security, the silver whirligig,
and the immutable laws of lift and ******.

Looking down at clouds, near the speed of sound
“Yes, I’ll have the pretzels, please, and a sprite.”
aviating thru the night, a few silent, blinking lights
wedged up in the stars to those stuck in slow cars.

We land with a bump, and reverse engine ******,
remaining in our seats until signs are revealed
we then become the many-headed impatience
to exit, to rush - for the baggage we trust
made the journey with us.

Oh, quick, grab a cab, catch a bus
the grumpy, disheveled, six of us
we weary travelers thus
were returned from vacation,
to a near dawn New Haven.

The idea that our founding fathers intended anyone over 18 to possess enough firepower to destroy the entire continental army of 1776 is absurd, arrogate and dangerous.

#repealthe2ndamendment

Place your bets, you’re just in time
for the game, the fix is in.

What a thrill. Is it a crime to cash in?
The winners do, and that could be you.

You’ll be a witness, as wise guys smoothly step in
- it’s basic greed - and never a sin, as long as they win.

Mr slick ricky, you’ve got to be bold to win gold -
winners never just fold - betting never gets old.

The winners will add your few spare bucks to their *** -
let’s admit, all that you’ve got - isn’t a lot - it won’t fuel a yacht.

Place your bets, you’re in the front row all the time,
don’t be lame, be part of the game, the greasy bigtime.

Debilitating laughter
at the hands of a master
a ***** minded *******
who knows what he’s after

The ever subtle asker
he caresses and flatters
his clever patter shatters
cares that should matter.

Finally, we moved to extract her
the wobbling girl from Nebraska
from a drunken fraternal disaster
and the junior poised to shaft her

Uhh, sorry to interrupt
Anna, pick her up her stuff
We gotta go home ***, get up
Hey bud, touch ME and you’re ******.

***, you’ve had too much ***
when tomorrow comes
if you still want to slum
you can still bed the ***

We’re waiting for an Uber
Are you starting to sober?
No babe, you didn’t *****-up
Ughh, yep, she threw up.

(a firefly poem)

Love isn’t easy to find, it’s ​well-camouflaged.

I was diagnosed with double-pneumonia on the 15th and classes started on the 17th. I’m already getting nagmail about assignments, yea! I’ll be behind and virtual for a while. It started as a rhinovirus, honestly, I don’t even remember being around a rhinoceros, but he trampled me good. (Hmm, song title there?)

I’m feeling better today, I can read without the room spinning - heck, I even managed to write this, but a new, implacable nemesis - low-energy - is here, like Lebron James, to check me when I attempt something over ambitious, like picking up my chemistry book. At least I got to stay in my room.

My roommate Sunny’s so angry with a certain girl that she even thinks it’s hilarious. Her creative, revenge beast has been awakened and her feelings are practically colors in the air. It’s entertaining. I think if she saw her now - well, let's say Sunny takes boxing in the gym every morning. “I’m over her already,” Sunny announces, stomping around her room, trashing all reminders on contact.
Be careful out there, people - if love doesn’t get you the rhino might.
.
.
*nagmail - mail about late assignments, class papers due, surveys

This happened last Fall, during Thanksgiving break.

Lisa and I were at the MET (The Metropolitan Museum of Art), with her family, at an exhibit of Art Deco sculpture. Lisa and I came out of a gallery and there was a group of older adults gathered near a bar.
“Hermé!” Lisa suddenly squealed. “Come on,” she said, dragging me towards the group. “I want you to meet one of my favorite people in the world!”

We crossed the room and found ourselves at the back of a large group, Lisa nodded to highlight a 60ish (I’m being generous here) lady. She was wearing a midnight blue Givenchy asymmetric midi dress and way too much jewelry. Both arms featured large and small gold bracelets that jingled when she moved. “She’s a friend of my grandma's,” Lisa said, “she’s off the hook.”

Hermé was chatting with those close to her and after a minute, Lisa said, “I’ll get us a drink, wait here,” and headed for the bar. Watching Hermé, I decided that she embodied the 4 fashion-aesthetic-principles: 1) dress for the occasion, 2) look good, 3) feel good, and 4) be seen looking good. She was definitely the center of attention.

People peeled off the group, one or two at a time, as people will do and as I got closer, Hermé was saying, “Russians - the way human history repeats itself, it’s like we’re in a time loop.” There were sounds of agreement.

When there were only a handful of us, I was the odd one out, being under 60. Hermé asked me, “And who are you?”
“A friend of Lisa’s,” I glanced over and waved at Lisa, who waved back, “Anais,” I finished, offering my hand. She was wearing little white gloves which suddenly seemed like genius (in these virus times).

“What did you think of the exhibit?” She asked, looking through the ½-frame glasses perched on her nose.

“Art Deco Sculpture?” I shrugged, looking around at the room’s remaining art lovers, “It looks like men doing heroic things with their clothes off.. like always?” The silence that followed seemed to beg for words, but I felt like maybe I’d said too much.

Then she laughed. The laugh was as measured and controlled as an opera singer’s vibrato. There were a couple of other chuckles too. Then she became serious, “What do you think of the Ukraine mess?”

“I’m a pre-med major,” I started to demur, but her gaze was on me uncomfortably, “Putin *****,” I answered.

She smiled, this time with no hesitation. “You’re a Yaleie - with Lisa?” She followed up.
“Yes mam,” I answered. I guessed she’d seen Lisa steer me over. She was sharp as a tack - I decided I liked her.

Her cell phone chirped then, and she excused herself. I mean she said, “excuse me” and everyone else made themselves scarce. As I took a few steps toward the bar I overheard her telling the caller, “Tell him he can just have it..” and after a split-second she added, “at cost.” I had to smile, no one’s as cheap as the rich.

I reached Lisa as she picked up our drinks, two American martinis (gin, vermouth and olives).
“Hermé has a ‘gild’ complex,” I whispered, indicating the glittering, fake gold fashion on display.
“No!” Lisa said in shocked amusement. This was more than repartee, it was 411.
“I’d be willing to bet.” I assured her, quipping, “fashion is my passion,” before I sipped my drink.
Lisa moved around to where she could inconspicuously observe Hermé better - we didn’t want to be rude.
“I like her, but her Louis Vuitton “Ponthieu” handbag is fake,” I said in a low murmur, “the pleshette’s wrong and the logo etching is too deep and reflective.
Lisa sipped her drink with an “mmm,” as she appraised Hermé anew.
“Her bracelets and necklaces are fake too,” I continued, “fake gold glitters, reflecting light like a mirror, real gold lusters, it caresses and almost deflects light.” After a second I nva’d, “Of course, she might be afraid of being robbed.”

An elderly man, about 90 (my guess), who’d been in Hermé’s group a minute ago, was making his way, slowly, in our direction. He was wearing a suit with black, tuxedo pants and a deep-red crushed-velvet coat with black trim.
“Who shot the couch?” I whispered to Lisa. We thought he was headed to the bar. But he stepped right up to us.

“What are they teaching you girls at Yale these days?” He asked. He had a ******-mary in one hand, so I opened up.
“A load of science, and how to do laundry,” I said, and wanting to escape the usual questions, I added, “and there’s a lot of drinking.” Leaning in confidentially, I added, “It’s opened me up, emotionally.”

“I was raised in the old ‘carnage on the highways, broken lives, stay away’ days,” he revealed, winking.
“But you got over it,” I nodded at his cup.
“We evolve, you know?” He said.
“Yes sir,” I grinned, “I hope so.”

As we talked, Lisa’s dad, Michael, joined us. “What are you two up to,” he asked, then, under his breath he added, “you seem conspiratorial.”
“Nothing,” Lisa said. “We’re taking fashion.” I updogged.
“Better lose those,” he nodded to Lisa indicating our drinks, “before your mother and Leeza get here.”
We’re under 21 and she doesn’t like us to drink in (Manhattan) public.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dat's love (From "Carmen Jones") by Lesley Garrett, Andrew Greenwood & Philharmonia Orchestra
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Martino Cafe by Gabrielle Chiararo

My last Thursday class is over - my class-week is over.

Looking back at the science building we’d just left,
the hallway looked dark, like the throat of an animal,
the people snaked out like a tongue, the archway
seemed like a mouth - I shivered and looked away.

Lisa laughed, and my senses returned to reality.

The clouds on high, hung like fresh linens on a line
being dried by the sun in its Egyptian-blue heaven.

The air smelled rich, clean and ionized and ever
the inventive stylist, it periodically rearranged my hair.

Leaves rustled, sounding like a buzz of conversation,
as they rushed from place to place, as if late to class.

The breeze was working hard, in jerky flourishes,
like the strokes of an indecisive artist.

The afternoon seemed as bright and brash as a shout    
as if it wanted, no demanded, our emotional attention
and I gave it, smilingly, ready for the weekend.

Life is a series of demands. Hurry up, perform.
Do your homework, write a paper, oh and read 300 pages,
get in those volunteer hours, grab those lab credentials.
I get busy, caught up in projects and I forget stuff
like dinnertime, peeing before it’s an emergency,
or like calling you - last night.
On vacation I’m unplugged, I’m avoiding focus,
I’m not paying attention, my mind’s wandering.
I’d want you less if it were required by law.
I imagine your huge, brown saucer eyes
exhibiting a wounded, blaming expression and I can’t.
Maybe there’s a biological explanation, yes, that’s it,
I’m missing an enzyme, I have a glandular disorder
that prevents long distance relationships from working.
No, not work - It can’t be work - it should be exciting.
Is it a crime to want some time off from pressure?
I’m not asking for a pony.
Just a sabbatical couple of weeks away from obligations.
I felt so guilty that I went to Karen (Lisa’s mom) about it.
We talked for over an hour, she’s so smart, I love her.
She reminded me about the recent lockdowns
and how years of skyping and remote learning
might affect (dull-down) a long distance romance.  
I told her what you said, about my sinatra psyche
and she said although I seem absurdly secure,
I’m probably still figuring things out - and that’s ok.
There’s really no substitute for talking to a mom.
I called you - and left a message - I hope you understand.
I turned my phone off - for now.

Yale’s friday “spring fling” was a soggy success - both as a concert and super spreader event. My groove-spirit was dampened by weather and a final I had the next morning.

I pose here tonight, in the chill residential courtyard, on my green sport-brella beach chair, like Canova’s Pauline Borghese, relaxed, canned *****-martini in hand, still untouched by the covid menace - as if I’d taken sagacious care in avoiding it.

The waxing crescent moon is strutting its familiar runway, like a vague, ambient night-light, but what should we expect for free? Maybe it’s saving itself for warm, clear summer skies.

I can relax tonight and binge on the moon because the school year is over (for me).

I’d been in a coffee-fueled study-trench for over a week, finishing my last assignment paper with my last gasp of academic energy. It illustrated what could be crafted in a vacuum void of originality. I filled it with ideas, gathered like runoff-water, from deeper sources and tailored the paragraphs with care, weaving by sleight, the 3D illusions of depth, breadth and substance. It was very well received. taking a bow

I love the feeling of being done with finals but still living on campus. It’s casual, adult and relaxed - close to life as I dreamed it as a kid.

My room is disassembled and I’m living out of my suitcase. Movers will come and cart off our stuff Monday. Leong and I will head south - like wrong way birds. I hate goodbyes but knowing these are temporary helps. Most of my summer will be like one continuous sleepover.

Happy Mother's Day!

It was the summer of 2014, I was just about to turn 13, spending June of summer vacation with my Grandmère, in Paris. Tonight we’re at a fundraising benefit for African relief (it’s always something). It was a coveted ticket, I was told, because Keira Knightley and Rita Ora were there - somewhere. It was being held at an empire-styled museum-estate in Paris, once owned by Josephine Bonaparte.

The rooms were ornate in the extreme, with dark, woodland, panoramic wall murals, large, finicky-looking furniture, heavy, with gold encrusted - everything. It made the small, dark rooms and tight passageways seem foreboding and claustrophobic.

A boy named Théo was my ‘date’ for the evening (NOT my idea). When my Grandmère was a girl, back when hoop skirts were the fashion and F. Scott Fitzgerald was just sharpening his pencils, a girl didn’t attend a function without a date. Théo was in my grade at school, but he was a couple of inches shorter than me, and his voice seemed different every time he talked. He was a surprise; I don’t even know how she found him.

As we snaked through the main house to the solarium, in a parade of otherwise middle aged, formally dressed guests, the dim hallway squeezed us down to a single-file line. Théo kept trying to take my hand, in the darkness, like he’s scared or something. “Stop that!” I warned him.

Then I saw a mirror - ‘Oh!’ I thought in surprise, stopping dead in the hallway to check my hair, straighten my dress, and pose for my imagination. I became aware Théo was talking, again - he always was - saying, “You're wa wa wa,” or something. Call me a casual and indifferent listener.

“Were you talking to me” I asked, “or just making words up?” He looked exasperated - why?
“You're blocking the way,” he said, anxiously, in a squeaky voice, the way he said it made me think he’d said it before.
He gently took my arm to move me along and I wobbled in my high-heels, I wasn’t very good with heels yet. “Easy,” I cautioned him, my arms briefly flailing.

“You know,” I said defensively,“ someone PUT that mirror there.. probably Napoleon or Josephine - they WANTED people to stop there.” Men are so illogical, it’s a wonder they survive.

As we finally entered the solarium, there was a jazz trio playing ‘C’est si bon’ (Arm in arm), what else? I said, “I’m starving.” A long table along a blue-glass wall featured desserts and champagne. My stomach growled.
I looked around, there was nothing for it - action must be taken - and Théo was useless.
“Want to go get something to eat? I asked him.
He lit up as if awakened, “McDonalds?” he asked. Our conversations were in French, naturally. His joy probably meant his parents didn’t like him eating there (American cuisine! = junk food).
“Bien sûr,” (of course) I said, grinning.

I found my Grandmère in a cluster of elegantly dressed patrons - and there was Keira Knightley - gorgeous, in a dress like she wore in that ‘pirate’ movie - she movie-star glittered, otherworldly.
“I’m starving,” I informed Grandmère, “we’re going to get something to eat,” I turned to show her Théo’s delighted face - he was her idea, after all.
“I was hoping to introduce you…” she started.
“Please!” I asked, bouncing up and down on my toes with some urgency, taking her hand.
“Very well,” she said, sighing, after a moment.

I turned away, wrestling my too-large iPhone-6-plus from my sparkly party clutch.
“Hey Siri, Call Charles,” I commanded. A moment later Charles picked up.
“McDonalds, Champs-Élysées,” I said, as Théo grinned, rubbing his hands in glee. “We’re in the solarium,” I added.
“Eyes on,” Charles said, indicating that he had me in sight.

We are poor creatures
slimy organs imprisoned in flesh.
The sun burns us, water drowns us
our lives are rough and short,
we’re little more than talking dust.

We all howl with angry doubts.

Our art may dry and chip
our science could let us down,
our poets stammer and grow quiet.

Humanity has always been imperfect,
but some of us are trying. We see the stars,
we know passion, we sing and dance
and are indomitable - join us-
because the best is yet to come

(a senryu poem)

I’m transitioning
my personal pronoun to
“Your Majesty”

“Have you ever been in love?” He asked.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “I love tech,” I revealed, “oh, and the Internet,” I confessed, “I LOVE the Internet!”

He looked disappointed. “You know what I mean,” he said.

I sighed. It’s hard to escape the long shadows cast by experiences and expectations.

“Love’s inscrutable!” I said, helpfully.

“Maybe I’ve never been in a relationship long enough for it to be love?” I asked the universe.

He tilted his head as if he were calculating something.

“What IS love anyway?” I asked. “Does love have to be an instant transcendence?”

“This isn’t going well”, I thought, his silence stood out like a curse in a cathedral.

“Let’s go to Dairy Queen!” I suggested, because that ALWAYS makes things better.

“I need an ice cream,” I said, as he looked ready to say something but didn't, “cake.” I finished.

(A throw-back piece, a breakup poem from high school)

What a lonely, peculiar, eccentric figure I must be. A girl, in a garden, crying at an iPad, in the dark.

Earlier, at school...

It was a clear spelling out, like steel cuts thru fruit.

As he spoke, he looked down and away, his gorgeous face blank and indifferent, as if I were wasting his time or he was talking to a child needing an obvious truth taught quickly.

When he finally looked back at me, I saw no pity in his impersonal, hazel eyes.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I needed time to contemplate the universe's new laws.

Can a girl just suddenly die of heartache?? because I was sure my heart had stopped, locked and frozen.

Finally, I gasped in this impossible new air—the force of it made me hold the cold-iron stair railing—the game is rough.

He's so—male—all chase and careless passion—intelligent teaser, a skilled steersman of excited climates... Oh, you simply have no idea.

And now he was, gone—still there physically—but gone to me—as if he'd transformed into a hologram or had begun to orbit some other sun, he just...

"You made me feel special." I said.

I had lost my balance on this faithless and unequal world, where heaven so cruelly punishes desires.

"You made me feel I mattered, such a favor." I said, absentmindedly, as I turned, and went back up the three steps into school.

I don't think I looked back at him as the door closed. After all, he wasn't there anymore.

I think he called my name, like a question...
.
.
Song for this:
Still Is Still Moving to Me (with Willie Nelson) by ***** & The Maytals
Helpless by The Cleaners From Venus

(An exercise to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter)

With heavy heart, I offer my remorse,
for I'm too tired to dance this weary eve.
The echoes of my workday's tireless chores
linger, leaving naught but fatigue's relief.

Oh, believe me, I hate to disappoint,
for the music tempts me to sway and dance.
But the hours I've toiled, each task and each point,
have drained me to a tired nudnik, perchance.

My spirit, once bright, now longs for respite,
to find solace in rest and heal my self.
Though my love for dance burns hot like cordite,
exhaustion demands I stay on the shelf.

Forgive me, my friend, tonight I must rest,
but once refreshed, we’ll fete and dance with zest.

It was Monday, June 20th, 2022. My roommates and I are in Paris to see Olivia Rodrigo (in two days). But tonight, I was doing a favor for my great uncle Remy. Taking my elderly great-aunt Yvonne to the airport.

In RL this all happened in French but I wouldn’t do that to you - but just so you know.

“I’ve always thought of Anais as a granddaughter,” Yvonne said too loudly into my phone, which she had picked up and I was afraid she’d drop. She kept trying to hold it to her ear.

She smiled at me with her old lady dimples. “That’s sweet of you to say,” I lied. She doesn’t fool me. She’s not innocuous. She’s as mean as a snake and she doesn’t like ME at all. How did I end up doing this? I asked myself.

“No Aunt Yvonne,” I said as I gently moved the phone away from her ear. “This is a CAMERA call. Hold it out so they can SEE you.” She’s saying a final goodbye to Remy and letting a cousin know her arrival time. As the Facetime call ends, I pocket my phone with relief.

Lisa’s with us (I told her not to come) and she doesn’t speak French. So for her, this whole task is an awkward pantomime. Charles, our escort, drove us to Orly airport and he’s circling in wait to pick us up.

Yvonne walks at a glacial pace, and it took forever to clear security. Lisa and I have special tags allowing us to escort Yvonne to her gate. I offered to get her a wheelchair, but NOOOOO.
“We need to hurry –,” I began, but she interrupted me.
“Why are you wearing that skintight nothing?” she barked loudly, irritatedly, “if I had YOUR figure, I’d hide those tiny *******” (“minuscules seins,” in French, loudly). Heads turned. As I flushed with irritation, she cackled like a witch.

It’s 8pm in Paris and 30.5°C (87°F). I’m wearing a sports bra and two tank tops. Sue me. I wasn’t planning on doing this at all. We were staggering slowly through the terminal when, like a gift from God, an Air France courtesy tram pulled up next to us.
“Get on,” I demanded, “or we’ll miss your flight.” She did - as slowly as humanly possible.

When we finally got seated at the gate, she sent me for bottled water, a sleep mask, a neck pillow, sugarless lemon drops and a Paris Match magazine. “Thank you, my dear,” she said upon my return, baring her teeth at me in what I suppose was meant to be a smile.

“You should come and visit me (in Libreville, Gabon, Africa),” she suggested, “I think there are things I could teach you.” This is like that gingerbread-house invitation we read about as children.

“I can’t,” I said, with feigned regret, "I'm in school,” (I wouldn’t go there if she lived with Timothée Chalamet).

I heard a familiar voice, and I looked up to see my Grandmèr arriving with her usual entourage of 7 or 8 lackeys, a couple of frazzled Air France employees and two gendarmes.
“Yvonne,” she said, pointing to the two Air France employees, “these people will see to you. Say goodbye to Anais.”

“Goodbye dear,” Yvonne said in a fake, fragile voice. I gave Yvonne a half-hearted Paris bises (two kisses on each side) and my Grandmèr shooed me away with a hand gesture and an impatient, “Go, GO.” I’m afraid uncle Remy’s in trouble.

Yvonne and her branch of the family are the slimiest people you could ever meet. They’re billion-heirs (not billionaires - billion-heirs) who (theoretically) stand to inherit handsomely when my Grandmèr dies (I am NOT in that grubby lineup). They’re liars, cheaters and scoundrels who’d stab you in the face for an olive to put in their martinis. They're legal reasons my Grandmèr has to put up with them from time to time - but every interaction is fraught with phoniness.

About fifteen minutes later, Lisa and I are in the car with Charles racing back to Paris for dinner with our roommates. As I texted them to expect us in 20 minutes, Lisa said, “I got bad vibes from that old lady - the way she LOOKED at you when you weren’t watching..”

“YOU,” I said with a chuckle, “are very perceptive!”

It’s going to snow tonight. It seems the brick shoulders of Elm Street will ooze, like watery eggnog, with a light snow tonight and we’re twitching with delight.

The vibes of it are too much and sure, it will just turn to slush, but you know how romance twists reality - snow seems laced with pageantry.

After two snowless winters the light dribbling, like a flirty look or a stolen kiss, will be exciting.

When I chose Yale, I was promised - ok threatened with - cruel winter weather.

I’m going to dance however I want, and if I commit to cruelty, I’ll accept it with all of its honest challenges. That cruel weather never materialized.

We returned to New Haven yesterday to be here - for the snow. Earlier, the wind was blowing in from the sea - but hurray! That’s changed.

It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.

Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”

Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally *******) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”

“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”

Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”  
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”

This morning’s sunrise was a tacky and artificial affair.
The sun was played by a weak, 12-watt, refrigerator bulb
that looked wet and heavy as it struggled uphill like a drunk.
The horizon reminded me of a cheap, runny theatrical illusion,
the clouds were old cotton ***** glued to cardboard silhouettes,
the birds sagged like dead puppets from uneven coat hanger wires.

I don’t miss you. Everything’s fine. I hardly noticed you were gone, actually.
Things here are a laugh and a half. We’re doing fun girl things. Anna got new shoes.
I’m hardened by years of inescapable, solitary, covid lockdown. I’m immune to despair.
So go off, interview for that new, far-flung PhD life. Go fawn over Elon Musk for all I care.
I’m definitely not in my room eating spoons of peanut butter and crying to Tom Waits songs.

Your life’s but a shadow
he’s a king of the earth
he’s secure in his place
he knows his own worth.

He‘s lacking all burdens
his smile merits bliss
by the King be commanded
you’re deemed worthy young miss.

The lady‘s so lucky,
as a rose meant for plucking,
this brawling, rough rogue,
- this heir to earths throne,
deems her worth the f—king.

I chuckle demurely,
“Be away drunken sir
- leave me to my studies
- go chase other skirts
with your fraternity buddies.”

It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.

The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.

We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.

We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.

There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.

We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.

We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.

The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.

Who are you? Self awareness is very tricky.
You’re very complicated, we all are,
people are the most complicated things
we encounter in our everyday lives.

Now imagine two complicated people together.
We manage this complexity by limiting each other,
with social contracts, to limit usurious behaviours.
If we abide by the contracts things are simplified.

Part of that is being polite - you don’t want a complex,
bank teller, dentist or policeman - our society runs
on simple transactions - perhaps 10 for each of us daily.

The wild card is emotion - that’s why *** is so tricky.
Do you want to depend on an emotional doctor
or be stopped by a really emotional policeman?
I think not.

There’s a 7-11 on Mars,
with parking for plenty of cars.
There’s never a wait in line
and you never get carded for wine.

There’s a huge monument on Venus,
it's shaped like a giant *****.
That’s a salute to Jeffery Bezos,
is it accurate and life-like - who knows?

A universe for the rich,
who found a technological niche,
with their business soaring,
to the stars they are roaring,
but for the rest of us, life is a *****.

Tuesday lasses
we all have classes
get up and go
there’s no time to waste
join the flow
there’s no reason to wait
everyone’s hustling
coffee guzzling
bus shuttling
paper shuffling
syllabus assessing
apple-watch checking
there’s a fall-like feeling
making things more appealing
file off of the bus
and join the crush
trudging up science hill
thru the doors up the stairs
climbing in pairs,
in class, at last,
setup and relax.
I open my binder
and hand in the assignment
the guy beside me can’t find it.
and the TA moves on
the guy’s upset and I get it
he’s frantic and grim
I pretend I’m not watching him
as he ransacks his rucksack
too late, they’re taking roll
carelessness takes its toll

last winter break*

I woke up abruptly, my chest gripped and tight. My face felt hot but my arms stung as if frostbitten. I gasped for air that wouldn’t come, like I had a plastic bag over my head.

If I’d had a bad dream, in waking, it had become a collection of vague, menacing shadows, not memories.

I hadn’t had a panic attack in ages, but you never forget the feeling. I reached dizzily for my backpack, beside the bed, which contained an albuterol inhaler. I managed, between gasps, and a puff, to turn on a small bedside light.

It was an indecent hour but between jerky breaths, and a second puff, I performed the series of flicks and touches that initiated a FaceTime call. My brother Brice is in med-school at Johns Hopkins University. He studies a thousand hours a week, I doubt he actually sleeps at all.

Brice answered on the second ring, his gnarled, blonde, wheatfield of hair was unmistakable, even in the dim street light. One glance at me was all he needed. “Breathe,” he said, “just breathe,” his deep, warm voice was as reassuring now as it had been when I was a child.

He made a dismissive motion to whomever he was with, indicating he was leaving and they should go on. “Ok,” a guy said, “Sure.” A  girl's voice said, “tomorrow,” but those voices faded as they were left behind.

“Did you use your inhaler?” He asked, when I nodded yes, he began our old routine, “Alright,” he said, “name things you can see.”
“My.. phone,” I said, haltingly. A moment later I added, “my iPad,” I gasped, “my purse.”
“Oh, your favorite things,” he whispered and when I honked a coughing laugh he said, “sorry.”

After some brisk walking, on his end, I heard the distinct beep of an access-point card-reader.

“The sky,” I added. The sky looked dark, jam-like and starless from Lisa’s 50th floor windows but there was a blurry line of blinking lights - jets queued for landing at Newark Liberty, or Teterboro airports. Life was going to go on, it seemed, even if I couldn’t breathe.

“Uh huh,” he said, in affirmation. His camera went dark and I could tell he was climbing stairs.
My body wanted a full breath, or three and was in a full water-boarding like panic.

I continued with my herky-jerky naming, “my suitcase, a ceiling fan.” He was in his room now.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now focus on 4 things you can touch.” I slowly and purposefully touched my backpack, water bottle, phone and bedside table as Brice quietly watched and waited. I’d stopped hyperventilating and I could feel my eyes relaxing and the room coming into focus (a symptom of anxiety is tunnel vision).

Brice knows me, maybe better than anyone. We finish each other’s sentences, we’re steeped in intimacy and knowing. We watched each other silently for a minute or two as my breathing became normal. His stupid, brotherly face was reassuring. He seemed in no rush, and finally asked, “What brought this on?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, hesitantly, but I had my suspicions. I was on vacation, having a terrific  time with Lisa and her family, and I’d made the honor roll, so my anxiety wasn’t school related.

“Mom left me a Christmas message,” I began, “and there was an explosion in the background, I think. I played it over and over,” I said, frustratedly, “was it thunder - or something else? I played it for Lisa - over and over. She said she thought it was thunder, but Lisa’s not a good liar.”

Feelings are never simple, they're multilayered, strip some off the top and they’re others underneath. If my parents' (Doctors without Borders) Ukraine war work was the stressor, there was little we could do about it.

Brice reminded me that the background noise was equivocal - it could have been thunder - and since this panic was an isolated event, we decided to keep it to ourselves.

As the call wrapped up, he made me promise to stop playing that message and avoid war news. We agreed to stay in closer touch (knowing that, with our schedules, it probably wasn’t going to happen.)
Still, I like knowing he’s out there - like a rescue inhaler - just a few button clicks away.

I find myself in full fantasy mode lately. I have a BF (who I saw a couple of weeks ago) and I’m not interrogating my romantic choices - but he’s not here.

Do I have an impulse to throw myself at that boundary? No, but I can steal a look, now and then, like a hotel souvenir - can’t I?

Yesterday morning, Lisa and I stopped at Steep, a coffee shop on science hill, to pick up something breakfasty. At one point the small shop filled with the aroma of apple pie and in my mind, I had a flash memory of this guy, Jordie, last fall, coming into this shop in his little Yale blue and white soccer shorts.

He’d looked fit. In memory, he seemed to move slowly, like individual video frames. There was an interesting, uncomplicated strength, something polished and fresh about him, like a shiny new phone.

“Here,” Lisa said, passing a coffee to me. Then she gave me a sly smile and a tilty-headed look, asking,
“Where’d you go? You looked like you were lost in some bliss.”

A guilt washed through me, as thin and unpleasant as cigarette smoke. The thought of telling her struck me like a slapping hand. Submitting this fantasy to a roommate focus-group seemed wrong.

The whole fantasy was bunkum anyway, an unimportant memory, mapped to a fragrance, as if his taut, tanned, muscular legs had significance.
“I was daydreaming,” I said, with an ‘I don’t know’ shrug and grimace.

(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Bunkum: a foolish or insincere idea)

The sun seemed to rise slowly, almost hesitantly, this morning - a yellow syrup pouring into a deep, dark blue sky. The air is hot and thick, like a low viscosity liquid. We’re going out on the boat this morning and when you have 9 passengers and crew, everyone’s toting something.

Kim and Bili have towels and a shoulder bag of sunscreen lotions and repellents, Charles has a cooler with everything needed to make breakfast omelets on the grill (the eggs have been pre-beaten, the veggies pre-chopped, the cheese grated, the meat diced).

Anna and Lisa are toting a cooler of sodas buried in ice. Leong has the “dry box” with phones, Nintendo switches, kindle readers and iPads. Leong’s rolling a luggage rack of textbooks, Sunny has a large coffee thermos, and Sophy has a bag with dry clothes for everyone.

The girls are practically running over each other in their eagerness to be last onboard because the first two get to towel the night’s condensation off everything.

I carried the lunch cooler full of Chick-fil-a sandwiches, but my main job is to check the indicators and disconnect the dockside water, drainage and electrical feeds as Charles takes the helm and begins his “preflight” before he fires up the Mercury 500-hp engines. I know we’re a “go” when he turns on the underwater lights - that’s my signal to cast off.

The engines roar to life and then purr as we slowly pull away from the dock, we girls greasing ourselves up with sunblock. The air conditioning begins to help but picking up speed is what finally breaks the hold of the oppressive heat.

As we exit the marina Charles opens-up on the throttle and that’s always a thrill. We usually ski first, before the lake gets crowded, and lounge later.

Sunny, Leong and Anna like to sit in the bow, refreshed by occasional lake spray and the wind-whipped cool. Leong likes to sit in the cabin, like Charles’ copilot while the rest of us recline on lounges facing rearward to watch the skiers.

Our summer mornings have passed like this, launching around 6 am, skiing, then swimming, studying and getting off the lake before the noontime “heat advisories” and afternoon thunderstorms.

Later, I’m relaxing in the shade, having just gotten out of the lake, and I’m on my iPad.

“What are you writing?” Anna asks.

“Oh, I write poetry and stories - mostly stories these days but there is some occasional poetic recidivism.” I say.

“You write poetry?” She repeats, as if shocked, “I didn’t think there were any poets left.”

“Well,” I say, “Most poets died, in the early flames of science, trying to prove the pen was mightier than the sword, but there are still poets around - they live in cities where they’ll try and wash your windshield if you stop at a traffic light, and they’re frequently mistaken for the homeless - or they may actually be homeless.”

“Can I read some of your writing?” She asks, after waiting through my long joke.

“Absolutely NOT.” I answer.

It’s May 18th, 2022. I’m poised, alone, heart pounding, in front of my laptop, waiting for courage, my finger hovering over the return key, like a child hoping the timing of my keystroke will bring me luck.

I took this summer off - which drove my mom absolutely CrAzY. “You CAN’T!” she’d said last month, only to be overruled by my Grandmère. Now I’m home for summer break and tonight she’s flush with exasperation.

“You should have applied for a dean’s fellowship,” she said, her voice rising as she rubs her hands together, as if scrubbing for an operating room procedure, “and a summer research position!” She’s practically twirling with suppressed emotion.

I get why she’s upset. She only goes “deep end” when she's worried about my future. She knows what’s needed to get a medical school slot in 2025 like other moms know their favorite recipe - after all, she’s done this twice before.

Leong’s upstairs, avoiding this family scene. When I described my family expectations as “hustle culture,” to my roommates, they all understood - we’re that much alike.

Step (my stepfather) is trying to de-escalate and calm us (her) down. “Look,” he says, holding up his hands like someone talking down a gunman, “NEXT summer she’ll buckle down, get in more volunteer hours and get a dean’s research fellowship” he says, sliding his eyes to me. I nod “ok” almost imperceptibly. “It’s ok to start grinding sophomore year - that’s what I did.”

OOOO! She turned to him and if looks could ****, he would have exploded like someone in a Tarantino movie.

By some psychic grace my Grandmère chose that moment to call. Step and I fled the den like it were on fire, going our separate ways to halve the chance of being followed.

In my dark room, lit only by the light of my MacBook, a quiver runs through me, and I finally press return. My grades for Spring semester - and Freshman year come up. My eyes water and I relax back against my chair when I see “Dean's List.”

I smile to myself, and slowly, fiercely I clench my fist with a “YESS!" As I postulate my victorious reprieve.

(a billet-doux to HP)

4 minutes til (virtual) class
“Dang”, I think. I need to post today's poem!
I paste the poem, the title, the tags.
I have the sense that once the page says “saving draft” I’m *******.
So I quickly press save.. and..
502 bad gateway
“Argh,” I say under my breath, glancing at my clock.
I press refresh.
Do you want to submit the form?
Of **** course I want to resubmit - I press submit.. and..
502 bad gateway
“Oh my f-king GOD!” I yell at my iPad
I press refresh.
Do you want to resubmit?
Yes, yes, YES- I resubmit, I submit, I supplicate, I grovel.. and..
502 bad gateway
2 minutes
I scream a line of obscenity that would **** the Pope if he were here.
I refresh
One of my roommates inquired, “Are you ok?” from her room.
I resubmit and.. and.. and..
“Yes!” I yell, to reassure my roommate, “Website issues,”
it finally, finally posts.
A “Whoom” sound announces the start of my virtual class.

(a university-life vignette)

It’s a Friday night, Leong and I are at a small restaurant close to the dorm called “Ordinary.” We’re in a cozy, pleasantly dark, little red booth—waiting for Lisa—who’s running late. This is Leong’s favorite bar and her taste in exotic drinks is labile—tonight she has us drinking ‘Maker’s Mark,’ a delicious, straight-up bourbon, with a twist of orange peel.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to buzz—did I mention Lisa’s running late? On a hot note, we’re celebrating. I turned in the first draft of my thesis prospectus last Wednesday and this morning I got it back - accepted.

But more importantly, when I tore into the envelope, back in my room, there was a yellow sticky-note on the prospectus that read like an academic valentine. It said:
“Anais, you write beautifully, with the economy of a poet.”
I may have danced around my room.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and noshing on a charcuterie platter when this cute, hipster, Princeton transfer-student guy named Milo showed up—drink in hand. He’s like, 5 '11 with light-brown medium-longish hair tucked behind his ears and he’s wearing a light blue, textured cardigan over a tan t-shirt and leaf-green work pants. At first, he’s walking by, but he spots us and stops.

“Has anyone ever told you look like Anais Vionet?” He asked me.
“No,” I replied, “never.” “You sound like her too,” he followed up.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I answered, shaking my head ‘no’ and shrugging.
“But she’d never come to a dive this cheap,” he updogged.
“Oh, yes she would,” I assured him.

Then, I gasped, remembering. Milos on one of Yale’s 500 soccer teams. “You guys lost to Princeton the other day! Isn’t that your alma mater? Congratulations!”
“Thanks, for bringing that up,” he said somewhat chagrined,
“We lost one-to-nil—it was just bad luck,” he said defensively.
“Oh, bad luck,” I chided him.

He did look tired and defeated, so I motioned him to take a seat. He slid right in next to Leong, who’s hand he shook, “Milo,” he said.
“I KNOW,” she said, in a sly and evil way—we’ve talked about him, conspiratorially—even she thinks he’s cute—and cross-culturally-cute isn’t easy.

“Are you superstitious?” Milo asked us—turning so Leong was included.
“Oh, sure,” I spoke first, “I was raised catholic, and even if you don’t hundo-p believe, it carries over. I always carry a lucky crystal with me—you know, for tests and what-not—I depend on that, as opposed to diligence and studying.”

“You have one with you now?” He followed up.
“I do,” I confessed, “I always have one in my bra.”
“Wow,” he laughed, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I chuckled, “For luck—in case I need to appear supper fun and sassy? Though I guess I’m proof crystals don’t work.”
“Do you really have a crystal in your bra?” He asked, sipping his whisky.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my hand discreetly into my left cup and bringing out a tiny, flat green, polished Jade stone crystal. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” He asked.
“Nah, there’s plenty of room in there,” I admitted, sliding the crystal back in place.

“Leong’s superstitious,” I said, nodding to her.
“All Chinese are superstitious,” Leong pronounced, “whenever I had a big exam at school, my mother would go and leave a chicken at the temple.”
Milo and I chortled—I’d actually seen women do that when I lived in Shenzhen.
“Well, I guess it worked!” Milo pronounced, and he and Leong high-fived.
“We have a saying, ‘it’s better to be lucky than good,” he added.
We say, “Yùnqì zhòngyàoguò nénglì,” Leong noted, in Cantonese.
“Luck is more important than ability,” I translated.
Speaking of luck, Lisa finally arrived.
.
.
Songs for this:
Where Are You by 54 Ultra
Cut Glass by mark william lewis

Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.

He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?

“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.

The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.

Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham

a down-payment of feelings is required
love me so I can decide to love you
please kiss for confirmation
touch this to accept
Mmmm

It was the second morning of “daylight savings time,” and the change was noticeable.

My BF Peter has a doctorate in applied physics, he's an expert, so I asked him, “How do they move the sun?”

He gave me one of his patented, blank looks, “What, who moves the sun?” He answered.

“Well, yes,” I said, “I suppose the “who” is important, but HOW do they move the sun? Peter can be dense sometimes.

“What are you TALKING about?” Peter asked, his head tilted in confusion.

I explained, “It’s daylight savings, ya? The sun is different, SO - how do they move the sun?”

“They don’t MOVE the sun,” he said, in a smug "I've got a PhD" way, “people set their clocks ahead an hour.”

I was stunned - Could it all be a cheap trick?
How, (I snorted in my mind) could they get everyone on earth to do THAT?

I didn’t argue, but I didn’t set my Apple Watch ahead or my laptop, or my desktop, or my iPad or Alexa - his “apotheosis” was obviously wrong.

He’s a new PhD, they just haven’t told him how they do it yet. I can wait. I patted his hand for support.

Peter also says that, out there in the “multiverse,” there may be an earth where I don’t have homework. First of all, isn’t it just like a guy to believe all of that “marvel comic” stuff?

“So, Superman’s real then?” I asked. He just lowered his head - burn: I had him there.

Secondly, can he get me/us to this planet “No homework?” NO.

Applied physics may very well be useless.

It’s Sunday morning, about 8am. My BF Peter and I we’re doing our laundry. Most of the time, we spent in my dorm common room, sitting side by side on a red corduroy couch, while our clothes washed, and then tumbled away in the dryer. If you want privacy on a college campus, or to do laundry in peace, avoiding the weekend laundry rush, do it before 10am.

"Why do you wear these," Peter asked, pulling and lightly snapping the hair-band on my wrist.
I pull my hand back, protectively. "If I don’t have a hair-band on my wrist I feel out of control."

There’s a new me. I’d decided - civilized, unemotional, clear-sighted.
"I've got a lot to do before summer,” Peter said earlier, “so I made a spreadsheet.”

I felt a shadow pass over me - our future is, at best, undecided. So, I shifted gears, the way the new me is trying to do lately.
“A Spreadsheet!” I said, like I approved, and he grinned. I’d made him happy. This is what adults do, I’d decided, they have civilized conversations where decisions were made or avoided - but there was a small, dark thing in my heart.

I got a text from our dryer saying our clothes were dry, so we headed down. I love the smell of fresh laundry and the feeling of shaved legs against fresh bed sheets - a luxurious combination no guy will ever understand. I made a mental note to shave my legs later.

The last couple of weeks I’ve been working on summer fellowship applications. A successful summer fellowship is one of those things I’ll need when I apply for med-school - like grades, faculty letters, physician recommendations, community service, a great MCAT score, bla bla bla.

My mom knows the 200 things med-schools use to cleave away pretenders and she’ll rattle them off upon request and sometimes over groaning protests.

What I need, ideally, this summer, are clinical experience hours. There’s not much at stake, just my future, the respect of the faculty, and the begrudging acknowledgement of my pre-med peers. My mom was quizzing me on my progress last night. I confirmed that all the applications were in and I ended with, “I haven’t slept with anyone yet, to gain advantage - but we’re still early in the process.”

She was not amused.

It’s a firework holiday,
so let’s light up the night,
wave the stars and stripes,
eat barbecue and drink bud light.

We’ll celebrate the liberties
that SCOTUS says we’ve got
it appears they’ve all been bought
and before their terms are over
they’ll resurrect Dred Scott.

Watermelon, hot wings
we’ve even added new things,
like smash & grab lootings
and frequent, random shootings.

Some Republicans want to break away
to form a less perfect union
can you form a successful nation
based on the politics of illusion?

There used to be parades
I’m told, that featured local
things, like firefighting brigades
I guess we’re just to fractured now,
to sashay in such displays.

I bet those were the days.

There’s a feeling called
the drifting force
that makes you want
to shift your course
and find a better vector
on boring study nights.

They’re so many things
a girl starts missing,
like hugging, dancing
and oh, yes kissing,
when she lets a dry syllabus
control her life.

After several hours
of intensive reading,
your intuition is that
what you’re needing,
is something we’ll
politely call ‘delights’.

But you make the almost
painful choice
and factor out your inner voice
and you pick up yet another book
and not a boy,
because, you see - it’s really
a necessity, not a choice.

Lisa and I finally tested covid-free! When we saw our results, we began an impromptu dance that felt like levitation.

Although my covid case seemed much milder, Lisa’s been nothing but supportive. Why just yesterday morning, before we tested, Lisa said, “If you test covid-free before I do, I’ll **** you.” She was holding a spork which gave the threat a specific gravity it might otherwise have lacked.
“Back off, Sweeny,” I said.

We worked the next day, masked - just in case - and I’d swear that Rebecca, my surgeon, almost smiled when she saw me. As funny as Rebecca is, off-hours, once she puts on that white coat - forgetaboutit - she goes to some other, humor-free zone.

That night, we went out to our favorite bar to celebrate our Lazarus-like resurrections.

In the club, as we were walking to the bar, Lisa asked me, “What if we get carded?” I gasped. Never, have I EVER been carded. To even suggest the possibility is to risk breaking a spell that has lasted since I was fifteen years old and first walked in the adult-bar world.

It’s not that I look old, I’ve been told I don't look 21 (although I’m almost 20) - but in dark, bar-light - I just look “right,” like I belong. And let's face it, no bar turns away college girls or charges them a cover - we’re good for business.

I put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and stopped us in our tracks. “Turn around three times,” I said.
“Why?” She asked. “To break the god-****, bad luck, vu doo you just put on us!” I said exasperatedly. She shrugged and started to turn in a circle. Again I took her by the shoulders, “Counter-clockwise,” I instructed, “don’t you know anything?!” Once she’d broken the jinx, we were free to go on.  The next part can only be poetry.

Behind the bar were shelves of bottles, brightly lit,
with pastel glows that shame the merely silver moon.
Red rums, golden bourbons, begging you to commit,
elixirs that dull every pain and brighten every mood.
Give us your tired, your lonely, and like Houdini
we’ll invoke fun with mystical treats like martinis.

We were basking in those lantern-like glows, like tourists, in heaven, when a bartender said, “What can I get you?” How generous those words were, how open and inviting.

“What’s your name?” I asked, he was wearing a name tag but I leaned in and gave him my friendliest smile. It’s important to establish a personal connection - but you can’t get carried away. He might be gay and decide you’re trailer.

“Brian,” he said. Brian was talking to me, but then he’d noticed Lisa and suddenly, he couldn’t take his eyes off her (Lisa’s an adriana). This bartender wasn’t gay at ALL.

I handed him my black, Centurion, American Express card “Can we set a tab for us?” I motioned to include Lisa, “and please include a 30% tip for yourself.” I smiled. He smiled.
“Oh, and there’ll be a gentleman joining us as well (Charles).”
“Sure.” he said, as he swiped the card on his iPad, adding, “now, what are you having?”

I’m a bit of a bon vivant, where cocktails are concerned but tonight, we’ll keep it vanilla.
“We’ll start with a Cherry coke (for Charles) and,” I looked at Lisa for approval, “Two American Martinis?” She smiled, “Please,” I added, putting my card away.
The coke is psychologically important; it gives the bartender what’s called 'plausible deniability.’
“Do you have a menu?” I said, as he turned to go. “Coming right up,” he said.

We were on a rooftop terrace that overlooked the Boston skyline. To the left, there were tables enclosed in glowing, geodesic bubbles that changed colors and off to the right, a dance space where couples were dancing, and a DJ was spinning ‘Sorja Smith’s - Little things.’

Our drinks arrived and Lisa and I laughingly toasted our covid survival.
At that moment, at least, everything seemed right with the world.

It’s Saturday morning. I’m at the acorn, my favorite coffee shop, on my iPad and deep in concentration. I’m time traveling back, to things seen and said, trying to create a story poem about recent happenings - or failing that - something quick and arbitrary.

I hear an “Ahem” and look up. A skinny, twenty-something man, with tousled black hair, clumsily dressed in drab browns and tans, was standing before me - a satchel over one shoulder and a coffee in hand. “May I join you?” He asked.

I looked around, there was only one other empty seat available, far at the back. “Sure,” I said, then, noticing my book bag filled the empty chair. I said “Sorry,” and moved it to the floor.
He took a seat.

He introduces himself, “Peter, “ he says.
“Anais,” I say, going back to my writing.
After a second he says, “What are you writing?”
“Poetry,” I answered, not looking up.
“So, something imaginary,” he said, it sounded condescending and irritating.
“Are you a student?” I asked, looking up to watch him settling in.
“Particle physics,” he says, cutting directly to the chase.
“Things too small to see,” I said. “Imaginary things,” I add a moment later, in revenge.
His mouth quirked, the suggestion of a smile dancing at the corners of his lips. He finished his coffee after a while and left. I saw him on campus a time or two after that - we would nod.

Then one thundering gray Saturday morning he was back. “Ahem,” he said. Then a moment later, before I could even look up, “ May I join you?” I looked up, and then around - there were plenty of seats. ”We can be imaginary friends,” he says. I smiled and nodded ok.

Your sweet breaths and perfumes provoke so,
have I found love in this drift of circumstance?

DO you love me? If so, pray, swear it on the tireless sea,
whose thrashing cold, intemperate waters will last forever.

I swear it freely, on the sea, on breath, and on life itself
- may both be forfit should my vow prove shallow perjury.

As pronounced vows become curses, if they be lies,
truth only ripens, its harvest yielding the sweetest fruit.

I’ll miss summer mornings on the lake.

Waking before sunrise to rooster-like loon calls.
Sipping coffee as the sky passes black to blue via orange,
the primordial seeming low, silver fog,
the first searing glints of reflected daylight
like bright angels announcing morning.

Jumping in that electrically cold water
and moments later - shivering
in the towel’s warm, comforting embrace
as the fresh day starts to warm.

I've grown rusty and unused to summoning words from a blank page - but FINALLY - there's something new to describe. School (11th grade) is over - at last - and... more.

There's a party tonight - a REAL, honest-to-God, in person, PARTY - for about 30 of us. Yes, vaccinations are documented. Life seems to be beginning again.

I'm eager, like a boxer before the bell or a racehorse at the starting gate. I'm an animal, long constrained, who knows it's about to be set free.

I'm as disorientated as an awakened dreamer and I find myself laughing, drunk with possibilities as I try on clothes for preliminary impressions.

It's hard to quash tremors of impatience.

I'm sick of helpless, indifferent, pandemic necessity.

I'm SO tired of boredom, circling me like a vulture, in my panopticon palace - that I opted for a respite of pure terror - I'm SO clever.

I'm skipping my senior year of high school and heading off to university. I'd rather die than risk spending another year in my room(s) - I almost went crazy.

There's a paper on my desk, white as a bride. It says "ACCEPTED for fall term 2021."

I’m trying not to let on that I’m afraid. Is desire always a tangle of impossible, contradictory impulses?

I've decided that my life is my only real possession - my own, small, life-or-death riddle to solve.

I want to live with intent, like I'm aimed at something and I'm going to chase happiness like it could be caught.

My luggage is open - like alligator jaws. I stare into those tan, Ghurka depths - rigid with anxiety.

My sister (home on vacation from her surgical residency) sees me eyeing the empty bags.
"Are you worried?” She says, “You look worried."

I normally find the sister-teacher-coach vibe irritating, but now, somehow, it seems reassuring.

"No," I lie - then - "A bit," I admit, close-lipped.

But that's a later worry =]

(Written for a contest “Write a poem based on a poem.’
Inspired by: “My Cat Is High, and So Am I” by Thomas W. Case)

Honey, I was ******, so ******.
I hardly knew what was going on.
That’s when I saw it was gone.

The moon, I mean - hold on -
Takes a swig of ****, but sugary lemonade
I watch the moon - when it’s there - you know?

I’ve always loved the moon - its reflective glamor,
the way it seems to bend light around it,
like a beautiful woman walking into a bar.

The moons like my cat, she has beauty, without vanity
- and without much gravity - like, you know - the moon.

But as I was saying, it was gone - suddenly?
It felt sudden - and visceral - like I’d misplaced something.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, it wasn't behind clouds.

So anyway, man, I looked around and there it was, as if by magic,
it couldn’t have been any clearer and it's never looked nearer,
than it was, right there, in my rear-view mirror.

I had to laugh. You see, I was ****** - so ******.
****** - but I’m never alone, when I can commune with the distant,
inconstant, love of my life, the ever-argent moon.

Lisa and I went to a reception, yesterday evening, for students who’d landed summer fellowships at a particular hospital in Boston. (Yeah us!) It wasn’t formal, so I wore a crimson cropped sweater, a beige circle skirt (with pockets!) and beige Sarto soft-leather ballet flats.

I’ve disparate feelings in these situations. I was excited - this was a goal I needed to achieve - that next notch - and my mom might even smile.

At the same time, I felt like an imposter. ‘If these people knew the trouble I’m having with physics this year,’ I thought, and ‘I know my sister could do this - and my brother - but can I?’

I try not to let my nervousness show, because the stories you tell yourself can hold you back.

The reception was small, there were only four students, their mentors and a few hospital and Yale people. As we signed in, we got name tags and tote bags with the hospital logo containing fellowship info. There were picture posters of the hospital all around and an intro video looping on a large screen TV. They took some snaps.

Several tables along one wall had coffee, sodas, water bottles and finger snacks - which I guess you’d call canapes - and melon ***** of all colors. The centerpiece though, was a big silver, smoked salmon with a lemon stuck in its mouth and a wreath of parsley about its neck - all on a bed of lettuce, surrounded by various crackers and French bread rolls.

I was working my way along the tables, because there were honeydew melon-***** and they’re a personal weakness. Honeydews aren’t in season now, so I was full-on, honeydew foraging. I’m sure I looked like a starving homeless girl who’d somehow gotten in and was trying to eat for the week.

A slim, attractive, black lady in a very stylish dark-gray beaded jacket & sheath dress, had stopped as if transfixed, staring solemnly at the salmon. As I drew next to her, my plate half full of honeydew *****, she said, “It’s a fitting memorial.” That hit me as so funny - I laughed embarrassingly - spitting half a melon ball under the table. She started laughing too - we were like two sillies at church. Her sad face, the way she’d said it - you had to be there.

After a few minutes, the hospital administrator gave a little general welcome, ending it with, “Now it’s time to meet your mentors.” The fish lady turned out to be my mentor. She was still standing next to me - she turned, offered her hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Rebecca.”

Her voice made those simple words seem warm and inviting. She looks to be in her early fifties (but I’m a bad judge of age), her short black hair was peppered with gray and white like she had just come in from the snow. We became instant old friends, cracking each other up.

Dr. Rebecca’s (again, I’m not doxing anyone) specialty is neurological surgery. She’s a Baltimore girl - born and raised - who attended Johns Hopkins from bachelors through medical school. Of course, I mentioned that both my siblings went to Johns at some point - Brice being a sophomore in med school there now.

Besides four years of medical school, Rebecca completed seven years of neurological surgery residency (yummy). “A doctor never really finishes school,” she said, “things constantly change and there are new specialties to master,” but I knew this from my parents.

“The plan is for you to shadow me this summer,” she confirmed, “and gain some clinical experience.” I nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Yes mam.” We talked for about thirty minutes and, as we parted, she gifted me a copy of ‘Skandalaki’s Surgical Anatomy.’

“If you want to be a surgeon, you’ll need to know anatomy better than God.” She’d said. “So start now. I made some notes for you in the index - we’re going to lean into this,” she finished, tapping the book, and giving me a wink.

I was walking on air as Lisa and I made our way back to the residence.
It’s going to be the BEST summer.

Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.

I do foolish things
when I’m blue
when I’m sad
and missing you
I do foolish things

like dancing all night
foolish things
drinking everything in sight
foolish things
shopping til I drop
foolish things
somehow I cannot stop

doing foolish things
when I’m blue
when I’m sad
and missing you
I do foolish things

watching ‘parks & rec’ all night
foolish things
drinking coffee until daylight
foolish things
dragging friends on crazy romps
foolish things
somehow I cannot stop

doing foolish things
when I’m blue
when I’m sad
and missing you
I do foolish things

acting like spring breakers
foolish things
*****-dirping strangers
foolish things
acting like some whack-job
foolish things
but somehow I cannot stop

doing foolish things
when I’m blue
when I’m sad
and missing you
I do foolish things

making badong decisions
foolish things
I’m in an awkweird position
foolish things
I’ve begun precrastinating
foolish things
a change is indicated

so come back soon
cause when you do
there are foolish things
I want to do with you
foolish things
foolish things
crazy foolish things
foolish things