The Dreams of Children

At the school dance last friday a parent opened a conversation with "I'm not sure Dex has mentioned this but....."

Usually this statement means I'm about to be shamed by the Human Tendencies of my child. But that night was different: minutes full of capital DULL. No surprise as this 'dance' consisted of wild 4-10 year-olds running circles around and over frowny-faced adults. The grown-ups could only manage pain filled clock-staring. As gigantic minutes refused to pass, I planned a 'coup' of the parent council. Clearly someone had forgotten the alcohol. And the drugs. And the sex. And definitely the birth control. In other words: Tonight I gladly welcomed the this woman's interruption. She continued: "My son has declared he is going to be 'a gay' with Dex. And no worries, he and Dex had already discussed it: They'd be gay and move to Japan. Did you know this?"

All I'd heard was Dex's plan to move to Japan. Seems I had incorrectly assumed it was a sign of a burgeoning perversion involving anime. Nope. And I mean, that's fine: Nev declared the next day he's never leaving home, so I guess things will balance themselves out.

Favorite Things

One of my favorite places is here. I like it for the music and for the stories. Mostly for the stories that usually feel a lot more like poetry:

I went gay when you left. Well, I tried, it didn't stick. I sold my pants and my clothes. I shaved "ex-greatest" into my head. I got a tattoo, temporary, of a whirlpool. I was stoned and staring at it in the mirror and just saying "Portal in, or way out?" over and over. Being apart feels like everything. When we get together, you and i, we can still remember what it's like to be apart and that's perfect. When we met it was so easy to remember what it was like before we met. It's when we forget what being apart feels like that we really lose it. I'm not talking in hypotheticals, in theory, I'm talking about this, your wrist and your ankle and my pointy hips. About your letters, all addressed to "P", and your socks, all dirty and white, and my kitchen, with only one chair.

Experiment number #83

What does beauty feel like?

Some say it is this. Or it is that. And here or over there.

And sometimes when I see it too, I say: wow, it's remarkable. Or that I could stare at it forever.

What is that feeling? The awe of a child, maybe.

I can't stop wondering. And looking for things that feel beautiful.

Lobster 911: lessons in love

I love when being awake could be confused with having a dream.

Like early this morning when we were boisterously celebrating the first few minutes of 2011.

Someone says: "I have a $50 lobster!" and appears minutes later with a singular gigantic lobster (as big as a new baby but way uglier). Alive. And wiggly. And playful! We tried to race the lobster, but lobsters don't really race. We let the lobster pinch our finger tips with his tasty baby claws. We tickled him and named him and held him up high and upside down. At some point a half-serious person intervened and said something about danger and being careful. He should be in water someone said with conviction. You know, like the tank at the store or a bucket off a fishing boat. Seemed to make a lot of sense.

We put him in the bathtub.

Ten minutes later, Mr. lobster looked like fucking hell. I think I even saw some lobster vomit floating in the water. He was Limp. We shook him and yelled in his face "Hey, Hey!" We were hoping for unconscious. Was he on the brink of death? How do you tell with a crustacean anyway. Was it too late? Did you see his tentacle thing move? Did he blink? Was he just pretending? Did anyone know lobster CPR? Adrenaline to the heart?

Can we still eat him?

I tried to be The Hero: I told him to stay away from the light and poked him aggressively for a long while. Wondering if he just needed to shake it off. or something. By that time I was bonded to the little pinchy guy. Genuinely concerned for his well being. Hoping he'd make it (at least for another six hours until lunch).

Apparently if it moves, I risk falling in love with it.

But it was too late. He was dead. We'd killed him. I'd killed him. Or her. By accident. What a fucking travesty.

It was absurd. Me. Bathtub. Lobster. Love.

And the moral of my 2011 opening story?

Love is like a lobster, looks all strong and unshakable on the outside, but is tender and delicate on the inside and needs someone paying attention to the details. Or it fucking dies.

And you go hungry.

So pack a snack.

__________________

what will happen next?

Notes from the Road: a 2011 will-do list.

Return to Chile and climb that mountain, over there.

Have a Hawken Sibling-bender-a-thon in the woods.

Re-write the MCAT and ace it. And finish that mother fucking phd.

Reliably touch my toes on command.

Defy a law of physics.

Run a marathon. The long one.

Attend a week-long Silent Zen retreat.

Eat.

Play too much hide and seek.

Age backwards; arrest at 20

Get a new ‘the last time I thought I was going to die’ story

Rearrange everything.

Always bring my camera, never load the film.