You begin your journey lonely beyond imagination - an emotional place I can barely begin to describe to the uninitiated.

Your body, primed by puberty, has these new, natural abilities - you develop these secret ambitions for yourself that push you hard.

You search for that someone. To use the technical term you “kiss a few frogs” to fine tune the impossibly fragile internal instruments that detect the elusive, magical “it.”

You pretend you’ve simply struck up friendships, the girl and the boy. It can’t last, this state of congenial denial - there are too many unspoken pressures - the suspense weighs on you both

A party scene, in
Senryus - from last March, when a
party could happen.

He looked at me
like a treat. “You,” he said,
are looking hot girl!"

“I’m only hot in
in the dazzling reflection
of your lust,” I said.

“Then you’re on
FIRE,” he said as he put
his hands on my hips.

“Your girlfriend’s looking,”
I said, - she and I nodded.
His hands retracted.

He brushed his hair
back over his ears, "some
other time.” he said.

“He was set to Jump
you,” My friend Kim teased, "No,
not really.” I shrugged.

"You disappointed?"
I snorted "yeah right,
His GF was watching."

"OH!," Kim realized,
"You were posing!! You're
STILL a ****** - I KNOW!!”

“SHUT UP!!” I laughed,
putting a hand to her lips,
“That’s secret info!”

“Sophomores are
ALWAYS virgins.” Kim said, “Not
Lisa, of course."

We turned, smiled,
and waved at Lisa - she
was dating three guys.

Kim says, “She could give
us both one.” "Leftovers," I
said, “should mean pizza.”

Nowadays I wake up hoping for the unpredictable - the novel.
When I open my eyes the angel of death isn’t out to get me.
Then - I remember - we’re at war and practicing subterfuge -
that measured trade-off between safety and despair.
So I move to my patterned routines - I dust my unused lips.
I check the level of my virtuous thoughts - hhmm.. getting low.
And I prepare the clever inventions that allow us to simulate life.

I love it when Lisa and I take our show out and, on the road,
like this twilight helicopter flight, from New Haven to LaGuardia.
I’m so excited about tonight, it’s possible that I might implode.

The rotor blades started twirling, our luggage had been stowed,
the pilot asked Lisa. “Ready for takeoff?” Lisa grinned saying, “Let's go!”
He gave her a quick and crisp salute and the engine noise started to grow.

As we went wheels-up, the whirly-birds warning lights began to strobe.
Yep, It’s the start of November recess and we’re changing our zip code.

We rise like a balloon, at first, until the harbor comes into view.
The engines were screaming like jets, when the whole world turned askew,
I’ve done numerous take-offs like this, but it still feels like I might spew.

Above the rear cockpit window, there’s an air-speed indicator that looks like a clock.
With a quick turn over Yale’s campus, we’re going 90 as we steak over the docks.

As we ascend into the night, the twinkling lights of New Haven seem to shrink.
We’re swiftly gaining altitude, this quivering contraption, moves faster than you’d think.

As the red numbers settle at 260, the vibrations have all but ceased,
The engine noise is gone as well, as we race up, in the darkness and out over the sea.

I try not to think of the inky black water, how far we would fall and how quickly we’d sink.

Long Island Sound glittered, like fractured glass, under the waxing crescent moon.
The forever-blue sky was hosting a large, fake-star, because Venus was glowing there too.
That dark almost-orbit was prettier than the infinity-of-lights we’ll see on Park Avenue.
We’ll be meeting Peter’s flight from Geneva - a surprise - he doesn’t have a clue.

As the lights of New York become pronounced, so does my excitement that he’ll be around.
I’m sure we’ll get a moment of quiet intimacy at the LaGuardia international arrivals lounge.

We hurtle down the last few hundred feet
of steep lavender lined cobbled *****
shaded by majestic umbrella pines - around
a last hairpin turn and there they are:

The blue-white Pampelonne beaches, of St Tropez.
Their indecent beauty almost defeats words.

With the scents of lavender, pine and salt sea air, you can
get dizzy on the aromatics. It's a Mediterranean performance
or perhaps a preview of heaven.

Our daredevil, fifteen year old driver, (Sylvain)
gets an unappreciative look from my mom. My brother (Brice)
and sister (Annick) whoop as if practiced, as they leap
from the open-sided Mercedes shuttle. I calmly gather my things.

This tranquil and elegant beach cove is private for hotel
guests - no chic crowds here - just a few quiet guests and
valets dressed in beige. The Pampelonne beaches are *******
(**** if you like), Annick peels ******* just before she hits the waves.

Brice, ever the considerate brother says, “Come ON,
RELAX, you’ll just look like one of the BOYS.”
Which earns him the old, American, one-finger salute.

I missed vacations this year and the beaches - where hours
stretch, with blissful laziness, to the rhythm of nature.
Will we ever get back to some pre-pandemic "normal"?

Arrggh!!
**** phone alarm.
I gulp haste.
I open my school app - like an eyelid.
Invade my sanctuary, virtual tyranny.
Where's my focus?!
looking around for my coffee cup
I feel like a bobble-head.

I babysit the daughter (Ivy) of a doctor at the hospital where I volunteer (to accumulate ‘clinical hours’ for my med-school applications). According to my mom, the purpose of my current existence is to get into med school.

That may sound crazy or theater-mom-ish but she has strong arguments - like Aristotle (all things strive toward full potential), stoicism (there’s a role for all living things) and vitalism (there’s a purpose, in life, beyond survival) - so, who am I to argue?

Straight brag, I’m a certified, Girl Scout Safe-Sitter®. Little Ivy and I will be eye to eye (metaphorically) for three hours today - no phones, TV or Internet - just paints, swings, barbies, a Montessori math game and a new toy called “MyFirst camera” which lets her take pix, and then print them, low-res and smeary, on ultra-thin paper.

I met Ivy when she was 4, now she’s on the edge of 6. She’s got large chestnut brown eyes that match her hair - which is cut in a shoulder length angled-bob. She’s about 3½-feet of cuteness, in her pink ballet-flat shoes. I’d describe her clothes, but she changes about every hour. “What are you wearing now?” I find myself asking the princess or jedi. “Can I help you officer?” I ask the business-like cop in a ballet tutu.
We’re old hats at this babysitting gig.

When Ivy picked up her camera, I asked, “Can I take your picture?” reaching out to take the thing.
“In a minute,” she said, lining me up in the viewfinder. “No,” she said, suddenly turning into a photographer highly critical of my look, “(pose) Like a model,” she directed, before striking, for a brief moment, a perfect, indifferent, hands-on hips pose herself. Kids pick up on everything. I took her direction and struck a pose.

Later, as we painted dragons that looked like flowers, she asked, “Why’s the sky blue?”
When Ivy asks questions, it’s like she’s getting a second opinion or testing to see what I know.
“Blue?” I asked, acting like I was confused. “The sky is GREEN.”
“NNOOO,” she said.
“You’re colorblind!” I exclaimed in alarm, “Does your mom know?!
“The sky is BLUE,” she said, with the seriousness of certainty.
“We’ll see,” I said, like a doubting thomas.
I held up five fingers, “How many colors am I holding up?”  
She looked at me, side-eyed for less than a beat, then said “No.”
We had hours of fun.

Later, when her mom came home, she asked “How’s it going guys?” As she set down her purse and keys.
Ivy looked up from her work, gluing a collage of the day's photos to poster board and said, “Ok.”
“We had fun,” I reported, “I’ve been teaching her some comedy things.”
“Like what?” her mom asked, nonplussed.
Ivy eyed me suspiciously.
“Like when she falls, she should wait for the laugh. She can’t just - hop right up.”

Another college tour, another favor. This time it was an old schoolmate, George and his parents who were taking the official tour. I was going to babysit his little sister Mary (5) while they walked around.

It was good to see someone from home and sad in a way. For a moment, I had a tugging feeling, like there was a hook deep inside me and the reel was back home.

When I first saw George I remembered a time, in 10th grade, before COVID. I was leaving school early and waiting to be picked up. Twenty track boys, fresh from their daily run, were lounging, seductively around. George, in particular, in a pose rather like Michelangelo’s Adam. “***!” I remember thinking at the time.

I smiled at that long-ago tableau. “What?” George asked, he was watching me. “Nothing,” I smiled, “Just looking forward to babysitting”

Mary and I exercised to a video, had a pizza delivered and colored - crayons aren’t easy to find in the modern college environment so we used high-lighters to create delicate, watercolor-like masterpieces.

As we drew, Mary said, off-handedly, “You’re really nice,” as if the nature of my character had been in some dispute. Still, I still felt warmly complemented.

When the tour was over, we were walking up science hill toward their car and the sun was declining to sunset. “How do you like it,” George asked, confidentially, head lowered, voice low enough not to be overheard by his parents who were walking a few yards behind us with Mary. “There’s a LOT of reading,” I said, shruggingly. “but I’m keeping up.” Last year I was a junior, this year I’m in college. It seemed absurd.

How do you conjure a vision for someone of what college would be like, when college experiences are so individual? The writer's dilemma, interpreted by a babysitter.

As we reached their car, the caroling bells started ringing (5pm) from Harkness Tower.  It was the perfect send-off. Again I felt the pull of homesickness but my phone plinked and the emotion didn’t even last as long as dusk.

Lisa comes into my room and flops on the bed. The day had been uncompromisingly gray, windy and cold. The night sky was a snowy, blowing darkness, an absolute void that absorbed the campus lights and reflected nothing back. “I’m missing Spring Break,” Lisa she says.

“It doesn’t even seem like Spring Break happened,” I say. “Most Yalies went to Puerto Rico this year, I think, from my sampling.”

“RIGHT?” Lisa said, “EVERYONE says that - we’re in sync. But I enjoyed Paris,” Lisa continued, “I liked your family - no - I LOVED your family,” she amends.

“THAT’s a strong take,” I say, chuckling.

“I watched basketball with your uncle (Rémi) and cousins and helped your grandma cook,” she explains, “I felt like a part of your family.”

“Aww,” I say, “You ARE part of my family now - you’re TRAPPED,” and we laughed.

They invented spring break because after several months, the student mind starts to notice a harsh reality - how much their dorm room resembles a cinder-block jail cell - and starts to wonder how a lifetime of study and stress over grades has gotten them no further in life than the average felon.

We’re at lunch. Lisa says, “Ok, what’s new with you?” Keep in mind we see each other ten times a day.

“Well,” I say, I’ve decided that “The Beatles are for spring.” Lisa laughs. “Stop!” I demand, “I’m going deep. Today’s song is Julia,” I say, “It’s John Lennon’s song to his mom who was run over by a car when he was a child.”  “I love that song,” Lisa says.

“Ok, what about you?” I ask.
“My song right now is “Move like a Boss,” Lisa says, “When I’m walking across campus, with my air pods on - I’m intense, don’t get in my way - I’m dangerous, I’ll Will Smith you - I scare me.”

“Good to Know,” I say, wishing I’d gotten a lemon brownie.

Then I add, “I’ve got this presentation on Monday that I haven’t even had time to look at yet. If I don’t get on it by this weekend it’ll be a nuclear-level disaster. I started on it yesterday and the Internet went down for 20 minutes. It was stressful - of course, you don’t know how long the outage is going to be when you’re IN it - and I had THINGS to do - is that convoluted? ”

“No,” Lisa says, nodding in agreement, “losing the Interweb’s traumatic.”

Hangovers are a back-tax on fun.

To paraphrase T.S. Eliot:
"Can last night just belong to last night?”

I’m not thinking about sins and penance
or making any bound-for-failure resolutions.

I’m giving myself a mental health break.

(a poem in several Haiku and Senryu stanzas)

The molten gold sun
on cerulean canvas
breeze borne cirrus clouds

flawless days stretching
like sun-kissed bodies - crisp white
linen cabanas

lips roughly sore from
innumerable kisses
we shimmer white hot.

Lulling rhythmic waves -
heaven's extravagant taste
- on leisure sculpt days

masterpiece pleasures,
love’s instigative brushstrokes,
paint compelling joy
.
.
songs for this:
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Viva La Vida by Coldplay

It didn’t work out. sigh
What were the odds? Statistics...
- love isn’t baseball.

Where do regrets start?
Should I regret the sunset
- or mourn holding hands?

Or shame desire?
Baseball.. Well, at least he
didn't get to first base. =]

beauty is a witch
the kiss of light, a trick
a mask, a banquet
a spell, a curse
a blessing
you

Moonlight through a quilt of clouds
we rush before the storm
lightning, like a camera flashed
as we made it to the dorm

We shiver as we rush the stairs
to the thunderous afterboom
I survey the nights assignments
when I’m safe inside my room

We’d planned for this foul weather,
and our tempest borne confinement
by stopping for some chinese food
- it was practically a requirement.

Become a (wo)man of peace
help the world, be content,
it isn’t up to governments.

Celebrate your free heart
in grateful virtue and
with modest speech.

Soothe the ever angry,
invite them in and dare trust;
be proud equals not at odds.

With new friends welcome,
double joys by sharing,
save the planet by being happy

I was at a friend's pool after school.
She loaned me this impossibly tiny bathing suit.
I looked at it skeptically but I didn’t ask whose it was.
It smelled faintly of chlorine.
We were supposed to be alone.
Her older brother came home.
His eyes settled on my skin,
like a wash of immediate sunburn.
It was awkward and thrilling to be watched.
I pretended not to notice,
behind my sunglasses,
I ignored him.
My friend noticed. “Perv alert, let’s go in.” she said.
I didn’t want to go but I didn’t let it show.

I met someone exciting the other day. We’re in an English class together, twenty of us, the class is really about chaos. Attraction can spring from nothing (talk about chaos). We had split into discussion groups and we were next to each other.

The abruptness of it surprised me - I felt the realization, a tingle that ran through me like a wave. I actually twitched, shivered really.

I’m still getting used to people, after the great pandemic separation. I know there were people who carried on as if it weren’t real. My parents, both doctors, took it very seriously. I was “sheltered in place,” like Rapunzel, with shorter hair. For over a year - it seemed longer.

So I haven’t felt this way in a while - this crushy feeling. Near him, my whole body is a receptor, very aware of everything about him - the smell of him alone saturates my senses. Everything about him seems vibrant, revelatory.

He opens doors sometimes, he brought me coffee - twice. He’s started covering the seat next to him and clears it when I arrive so I can sit next to him. He asks questions about my life. He’s polite but persistent, like a newspaper reporter. He’s from Nebraska, a farm boy (19, a man?), he has a dreamy accent and he’s funny.

I wish I could be around him more. Even thinking about it makes my heart race as though I were confessing a secret. But the fact is, it’s impossible. It’s too soon, we just got here. The wish itself is a burden.

Why do I have to be ruthlessly practical all the time? It *****.

Some Senryus about
Bestfriends - the kindred spirits
we're lucky to know.

Boys are "whatever,"
but bestfriends are forever.
That's the way it is.

We tell our secret
fantasies - that we exchange
in sworn secrecy.

Bestfriends: the girls you
only stay mad at briefly - 'cause
you've news for them!

A bestfriend would push
you into your crush and yell
"get some!" then run.

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

After a period of self-assessment,
I’m trying to be a better person.

I want to be more patient, not just ferociously busy.
I want to practice gratefulness, be less snarky
and relentlessly sarcastic.

And even though I keep it pushing, by trying
to put these changes into action, out in the world,
the project is way behind schedule and over-budget
- I may have to make cuts.

Bili’s one of my two best chums. She's exquisite, cagey and ferociously funny - compared to her I’m tomboyish.

Her hair is a straight corn-silk that shines like black-enamel. When we watch movies, I get to brush it. Her heritage is Japanese, she has perfect, warm-ivory skin, but she’s as American as sarcasm or gun-violence.

When she talks to me, sometimes she’ll be flirtatious or motherly, but always jocose. She bullies me, good-naturedly coaxing and chivvying me onto the trajectory she selects.

I’m jiggered - I enjoy being treated like a pet. I’ve been so harried lately that it’s somehow calming. I think I’m going to spend the rest of the summer, blithely letting her arrange me.

Peter (my bf) and I were in Paris, about three weeks ago (I was on Spring break, he was on vacation from work).
‘Headstart for Happiness,’ by ‘the Style Council,’ was playing low somewhere.
“This is the kind of starry winter night that guy from the Netherlands used to paint,” I observed.
“If you were writing about it,” he asked, “how would you describe it?”
“Imagine a deep, still blue, hosting a field of luminescent light scatter, and a bashful moon, low in the sky, as if it were hiding in the trees.” I guessed.
“It’ll moonset soon,” he said “within the hour.” he added.
“I never think of moonsets.” I said, looking at the sky like it was new.
“The moon follows the line of the ecliptic,” he said, as if that meant something, “more or less,” he qualified.
“To think I grew up under an undifferentiated sky,” I marveled.

When I’m with him, I can relax, I don’t have to be-on, he’s smart enough.
Of course, I’d come in handy if he went into cardiac arrest or started choking on something.

We were sitting side by side, outside ‘Le Café du Marché,’ a bistro near the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter,  Léo, had just refilled our coffee. It was 9:30 PM and we’d been at this table for about two hours.

We’d reduced the tarte-tatin to a few crumbs forty minutes ago, but Léo knows me and although they're thirty tourists in line for tables, he won’t rush us.

Like puppets dance, we often mimic lines - I don’t know why.
“I was stalking you,” I confided, running a finger along his long-sleeve shirt-cuff.
“I was stalking you,” He said. Our eyes were fixed on each other.
“No, seriously,” I said, moving in much closer, to be serious.
“No, seriously,” He deadpanned back.
“Then I caught you,” I went on, and I was very close now, our lips maybe two inches apart.
“No, I caught you,” he said, smiling as I got very close. “It was ****** Jujitsu,” he softly bragged.
“Wax on, wax off,” I said before I stole a quick kiss.

Peter was shocked, a scooch, by French teens.
If French teens have a crush, especially in Paris, it’s a ‘drop what you’re doing,’ snog-fest - between classes in the hall, on-the-metro, in a coffee shop or grocery store they go-all-in, because love must be stormy, urgent, tinchy.
Here’s a secret. Peter says, “You **** my face, like no one ever has.” It must be the French in me. Ha!

Of course, I learned all I know about love from Taylor Swift.
Let’s see, first, I must be willing to let down my guard - because love can happen at any time.
Love, at its best, is overwhelming, mistake prone, meaningful and powerful - but I can’t assume it’ll last, because my lover may have ulterior motives. I could be hurt or changed by the experience - but I’ll have the memories. Eventually though, I’ll heal enough to try again - with a new set of expectations.

Maybe I’ll even write a song or a poem about it.

Were in the (study) trenches, but we don’t mind,
in the trenches, you aren’t really aware of time,
I’ve talked with a lot of my classmates,
and the citadel lights are burning late.

Ever startle awake because a spider’s on your face - but it’s only your hair?

Sunny’s been infected with the writing sickness.
She keeps saying “listen to this.”

Orthography might just be the death of me - seriously.

I dreamed Peter (my BF) was leaving.
I saw him behind the wheel of a car,
waving from the deck of a ship,
and blurred in the window of a bullet train.
It was like a wheel of misfortune.

I’m in a psychology class and as part of it we filled out several, detailed, personality evaluations. They said these were helpful in forming a psychological profile of the freshmen classes each year and of particular interest were these COVID years.

The professor said she’d be available, before finals, to review them with us if we were interested - and I volunteered. So in our review we’re going over my results and she says: “Your trauma history could produce this constellation of wit, wiriness and attachment-anxiety.”

I flinch, irritably, thinking, my “trauma history?” What, “trauma history?” Wondering if - maybe the professor was looking at the wrong paper?

She read my reaction and the consternation on my face, started flipping through the papers, and said, “According to the history you submitted, your father was killed when you were seven and you were hospitalized for...”

“***” I thought, blanking out what she was saying, “How could I have forgotten THAT?” Even for a moment. Then I sag with this oppressive, blanket-like wave of guilt at having put the crash so far out of my mind.

“The dismissal of childhood trauma is quite normal,” she said, putting her hand on my arm, “You have to put trauma out of your everyday thoughts - to get on with your life.” She assured me. “It’s quite normal.”

How many blind sides do I have? I wondered

I have several toxic habits - I know - because I read this article on the web.
It’s a miracle I’m not an axe murderer, based on what the experts said.

I use “should” biased judgements - when things go amiss.
I think about the future, when settling down to rest.
I obsess on defining the “best part” in each of my experiences.
I often think in poetic terms  - which has driven wise men delirious.
I have nova bursts of interest - which escalate into crushes.
I keep a mental list of incidents which, if left unmanaged, lead to grudges.

The flaws go on and on - God, I simply am a mess.
I need to face my many flaws so that they might be addressed.

Do you think anyone is ever perfect?
Is it like playing whack-a-mole?

So that no one ever ends up perfect - they simply end up old?

(Georgia election Senryus)

Yeah, we're going
to give America the
democratic win.

'Cause that's how we roll.
We'll show you how to toss out
republican crooks.

We'll give the bird to
lying Donald Trump and his
criminal cohorts.

Long live America,
long live The Constitution,
long live blue Georgia.

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.

.............I found
    some           words
that                              I
can                         use
       to                 bind
            you with

I’m overthinking,
tired of the endless waiting,
about to blow up.

Even my mom sees it.
She starts some cutting remark
only to pull it back.

Me: "Argh! I have this anger, just below the surface."
My brother: "Uhh, it's not that far below the surface."

(3 Senryus)

No - don’t kiss me
unless you're planning to
start a new habit.

Don't borrow kisses
unless you can return them
with real interest.

Remember boy-O
it's all fun and games 'til
someone falls in love.

It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”

“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says. Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.

“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.

“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”

Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.

I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” last night - we’re going to be reading Truman Capote’s book after the break and I wanted to start thinking about it. The movie rewrites Truman Capote’s story, turning it into a romcom, completely eliminating the book's gay themes. I’d seen ‘Breakfast’ before, but now I’m a little older, and as a single woman, I can better appreciate it. I’m looking forward to studying its socio-****** themes. These are some first thoughts.

Let’s take the opening of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” The images are iconic and some of the most widely repeated in pop-culture today (Hello, ubiquitous dorm room decor), but they’re never used in a way consistent with their function in the film. Instead of seeing a horribly depressed girl who has nothing left in her life but pure escapism, people see a beautiful woman with apparent access to luxury.

When “Breakfast” came out (in 1961) there was a sense, within the press and wider public, that even a neutered version of Holly Golightly represented a cinematic moral nadir that posed a threat to society. Whether Holly was a “moral character” was up for debate in countless reviews of the film. Today, this seems absurd.

Today, Holly is seen as an aspirational figure. With her opera gloves, her intricate updo, pearls and Givenchy little black dress, she looks like someone who belongs at Tiffany’s (of course, the casting the euro-elegant Audrey Hepburn didn’t hurt). Truman Capote wanted Marilyn Monroe as Holly - that would have been a very different movie.

Watching the film, I was struck with how contemporary Holly felt. She seems so familiar - so similar to the countless imitations we’ve seen since. People watching the movie for the first time today may be underwhelmed, but Holly seems so contemporary now, because she was so ahead of the curve back then (just over 60 years ago).

If you look at the popular romantic comedies that surrounded ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, like “Pillow talk,’ ‘Gigi,’ and ‘Giget’ - their leading ladies were nothing like Holly. Being a heroine in those films meant you strived for marriage, you saved yourself for your one true love and, as a woman, you avoided certain subjects altogether. They imply happiness only comes from following a certain good girl ethos.

An example of what could happen to a girl, if she strayed from that path, was shown in Elia Kazan’s ‘Splendor in the Grass’ which also came out in ‘61. Its theme is the consequences of ****** repression, and it outlines a specific cinematic binary. There are good girls and bad girls. The bad girls were usually presented as sad and mentally unstable - and they paid for their sins in the end - usually by dying by some karmic punishment (car wrecks usually).

Holly sits somewhere in between good and bad, complicating the cinematic binary. Because Audrey’s elegance plays her as classy, warm and accessible, she doesn’t come across as a dangerous wild child - although she makes all of the bad girl choices - like partying, drinking and having ***.

For women who grew up in the repressive 1950s, Holly represented a new path forward. Holly lived on her own, she didn’t crave marriage above all else, she didn’t want to live in a cage, and she managed to have a good time without being victimized or doomed. Holly was noticeably different. The pill came out in May of 1960 (one of the watershed events in human history). Holly was Hollywood's first post-pill heroine, representing the ****** revolution before Betty Friedan’s ‘Feminine Mystique’.

Don - they tell me you're leaving
I can't believe it's true,
that we’ll get to live without you.

You’ll go away - govern-mentally,
after all this pain and misery.
When you go - I won’t miss you,
You never said a thing that was true.

Remember when - you hoaxed the virus fight.
What an idiot - you never got it right.
Trump never cared - for me or you,
but we might survive now that he's through.

So let’s discuss - the insurrection -
you provoked when you lost the election.
You got impeached for time number two
who said breaking up was hard to do?

Let’s say goodbye - and let it be,
I hear you’re going to do - Trump TV?
About the time you get that set up,
New York will come and lock you up.

The question arises - in high school - "how do I break up with...."
So, as a public service - may I present:

Handy break-up Senryus.
Pick one to quickly, cut that old
relationship cord

I'm sorry, What'd you say?
I can't hear you confused look
- we’re breaking up.

You’re the guy that
every school girl seems to want...
- today's their lucky day.

It's time we took
our relationship to the
previous level.

I still cherish the
initial misconceptions
I had about you.

What I want is someone to love,
and for someone to somehow love me.
Not right now and not tomorrow...
but some day - eventually.
I’m still a child, those mysteries are vague,
but I pray it will happen - breathlessly.

(a flash fiction piece)

My brother (Brice) left university, 6 months ago, like millions of other students, to shelter from COVID. After years away Mr. Annoying was back in MY world, bickeringly close and way too frequently in my business - like some half-assed adult (he just turned 22).

As school planning recently started though, I awoke one night, unnerved at the thought that he might be leaving. It was a shocking awakening to how much I need him, draw strength from him and shelter in his lee. The heart-wrenching realization of how much I would miss him was breathtaking, like that Disney ride where they suddenly drop you seven stories. I bit off half my fingernails before I finally fell asleep. =/

In the clear light of morning, it's obvious that he’ll leave again at some point and I'm dreading it now that it's flagged my awareness - and I face him with a whole new, creepy appreciation.

Yesterday afternoon...
Brice is on the sectional, with a bowl of pretzels, watching some BORING documentary.
I sneak up behind him and take his drink off the side table.
I plop down next to him - very close, I squeeze next to him, hard, like there’s no other room on the huge sectional. He gives me the side eye.
Me: “What??”
After a few minutes he reaches for his drink to find it missing - he looks around, then at me.
Me: With a mouth full of pretzels, “What??”
He gets up to find his drink (which I put in the kitchen) and that takes about 20 seconds.
While he’s gone, I change the channel to “Miraculous Ladybug”, my favorite cartoon.
When he comes back we wrestle for the remote - it takes him a couple of minutes but he’s too strong and as he begins winning, I yell, “MOM!!, Brice is hurting me!” (which was cruelly ignored).
He finally gets the remote and back to his show - I straighten my hair, out of breath, and wonder how long it will take him to realize the pretzels are missing.

Please, bright holidays - summon irresistible cheer
that dancing souls can celebrate with free hearts.

Let hallow'd observances pass with seasonal soundtracks, tinsel-prismed cascades of multicolored lights and evergreen scents.

Too often these days, our joys seem hostage held
by some fearsome heaviness, like that of a guilty thing.

Give wholesome nights back their power to charm,
enjoy festive feelings, and pass those, as gifts, on to others.

a Haiku

You don’t know me
Not really. You just might see
someone smiling bright

you might hear a laugh
skipping off my dark surface
inside I am rough

I am scrubbing on
interior surfaces in a
measured tyranny

Sunny and her love-object have broken up.

It was a selfie-inflicted wound - a slapdash pic taken,
that like a puzzle, revealed more than intended.

We try to be thoughtful and considerate but
we’ve only recently escaped from captivity.

Perfectly nice people are capable of unfaithful deeds.
Isn’t that what so much of great literature is about?

Our lives are written in disappearing ink,
and it’s not as if all kisses are meaningful.

We stretch for happiness or for fleeting pleasure
- we’re not married and only vaguely committed.

What would tempt you - what could you actually resist at 18?
Or now - but maybe you’re a saint.

(a poem in 2 Senryus)

We carefully choose
bits of our lives that we then
weave into stories.

Like birds building nests,
making the safe places that
keep and define us.

Love is but a game of false dice, sweet lies and oaths
to tame pretty rebels for astute, overmastering gentlemen
- harsh, dishonest and less in love, who loan affection with interest
and measure passion like coin recompense.

CH#64 - astute

We were on a 2nd floor garden terrace. The three-quarter moon was doing its best to set a romantic, gin-mood, pouring a soft pastel-blue on the world, that softened hard edges.

A cool breeze wafted jasmine scents from a nearby tea-olive tree. We were alone, the only sounds were far off footsteps and my pounding heart. Wasn’t this romantic?  

Fueled twice by desire I had dressed carefully and modestly, with just a subtle, but fancy, hint of sluttiness. My costume, carefully vetted by a company of five, calculating, non-virgins, was designed to be both alluring and as abstruse as Kleenex. I was a doll dressed, painted and scented to ******. Wasn’t I romantic?

We’d never kissed before, and I wanted him to kiss me with an almost moaning force of will. I brushed my skirt down and checked that my hair was in place with quick, fleeting hand motions that could have been butterflies in the reflected light.

We were sitting close together, I could feel his warmth, but nothing was happening and then, as nothing continued to happen, I began to fret, to sag, what was the glitch? Maybe..

I felt a warmth, his breath, I looked up and he kissed me, gently, then moved back a little. I smiled. I wanted to laugh, to shout, to jump around like my team had won the Superbowl, but I was very still, lest I scare him off. Oh, there were butterflies somewhere.

He’s smart. His mind probes the infinite but sometimes neglects the immediate. I wasn’t expecting a smooth move from someone who’s all knees, thumbs and elbows but, hey, I’m capable, and willing, to learn.

(Senryus)

If I don’t have
a hair-band on my wrist I
feel out of control.

When I was a kid
I thought teens were the coolest
people in the world.

Now I know that teens
are the tiredest, most stressed
people in the world.

How fun would it be
if ceiling fans could support
our weight - bye boredom.

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!

The sharpened mind - with care - takes aim
- at university, we play ruthless games.
Where pencils scratch, their graphite gray,
and scholarly answers take the day.

I've finished midterms!
It was like one of those TV shows, ‘survivor’ or something.

Enzyme kinetics, metabolic pathways, protein structures and functions be ****** - no, be double ******.

I’d been working problems raw in dreams, waking up tired.

Sunday, I was so stressed I'd felt calm, like I’d accepted my fate.
I can tell you that now - now that I survived.

“I was strazzled but controlled - there's a difference in how
I struggle internally - and what I let show.” I told Leong.
“Is that why you were yelling at everyone?” she replied.

“Now that midterms are over, I feel luminary,” I informed Leong, “am I glowing?”
She looked up and said, “No.” Communists aren’t sentimental.
Of course I meant luminary in both achievement and radiance.

My Uncle Remy used to tell me:
“Little one, don’t worry about being a failure,
that’s your parent’s job.”

I Love you Uncle Remy.

I’m over Siri-ous,
I’m over-charging,
My screen time is up,
My audio levels are up,
I was watching **** again,
I’m searching stupid things,
I’m not closing all my circles,
I haven’t walked long enough,
I don’t stand at all the right times,
I may be an online shopping ******,
I’m spending too much time on Tiktok,
My heart jumps around the wrong guys,
I’m looking at bright screens late at night,
I’m getting too many calories from cocktails,
I’m not taking full advantage of my subscriptions,
I need to upgrade my hardware, software and my attitude.

Senryus about those
capricious creatures that rule
over our lives - our moms.

Studying. My phone
beeps, I look at it - mom says,
- "you've been texting!" Argh!

Mom: "Why is it - that
everything is on the floor?"
Me: thinking... "gravity?"

"SORRY!, how could I
know answering your question
would be talking back??"

My mom can hear me
mumble a mile away but
can't hear me yell "what"?

If my days were fanned out in front of me,
like a magician's playing cards,
I couldn’t pick one, just one, any one
that was better for your absence.

Dear careless whisperer,
Some sharings are dagger-edged
and there is no escape when they’re turned on you
no countermagic for the soul crushing embarrassment
dropped as if from a great height.
Did you hear the gun-shot thunderclap of confidence
leaving the room?

The pre-dawn rang
as cat choirs sang
in waring gangs
sharp and rank
before they sprang
with claw and fang.

Isn’t it an overweening piety
to think that diverse cat societies
would address conflicts more politely
observe more cultural propriety
and politic more peacefully and quietly
than our own species, which behaves so violently

Are we not, in part, their masters?
Don’t we war for goals we’re after?
Aren’t some of our leaders practically gangsters?

Humans are - frankly - alpha-predator *******.
Does any species author more disasters?

If the language of cats, we could unscramble,
and into their feral dialogs we could wrangle,
perhaps we’d see that they’re just following our example.