The Fairest of Them All

Ten

Nine

Eight

Seven

Six

Five

Four

Three

Two

?*

*Panic. A new decade. Don't be so dramatic. Stop panicking. Ever wonder why you can't keep up with your ridiculous New Year's resolutions? It's because you never bothered to make the more important list. The list of what you were thankful for from this year. Do it. Do it now. I'll start you off.

One

I'm thankful for making it to 2011.

Also, having said that it's no coincidence that your list should mirror that of the New Year's Eve countdown. Take a look at yourself. Count down. Build up. Count down. Build up.

There. That wasn't so bad, was it? Finish it, already.

Seriously. Finish it.

The Ringbearer

Heirlooms continue to be a conundrum to me. If we are part of an interesting lineage, then we know we might be the recipient of such items at one point or another. If we are lucky enough to have a family of our own, then we hope someday to leave the traces of our own existence behind.

The mysterious nature of an heirloom lies in its worth--or lack thereof. Or at least that's what I thought. Recently, one of my best friends found an engraving inside of her deceased father's wedding band. Out of curiosity and while I am certain she would rather sell her soul than this ring, she Googled the company on the inscription. As it turns out, the band is worth quite a bit. She wears this band nearly everyday. In fact, when I think of her, I can barely imagine her without it. To me, it is her humble and steadfast compass.

Over the years, we befriended each other firstly out of a common academic institution, then out of common geography, then common interests, and most importantly out of a similarity in our understanding of pain and loss of family. While I can never understand the pain of losing a parent at such a young age, her band is a tangible reminder of the rather enchanting life her father led. Although she lost him at a very young age, I believe that ring has been there all along---sitting on her finger---guiding her through life's most seminal moments. And here we are, nearly a decade after meeting, and after never having met this man, when we are together I feel him watching over us. Especially her--but also all of us who are with her and who have the pleasure of her company and her effervescence.

In no way do I think this particular piece of jewelry replaces her father, but what I will say is this. Seeing that ring evokes such a profound sense of love that I have always imagined she shared with him. And while they always say that your imagination is better than the real thing, in this case, I find that very hard to believe. And that leads me to my point.

Anyone can have an heirloom appraised. In fact, I think this is considered commonplace, especially if you are insuring the family jewels. But whether it be expensive or not--the worth lies in the eye of the beholder. The memory of where that ring came from, the nature of its journey to her finger, and where it will go from now, is in fact the nucleus of its value. Without each individual and the appraisal first of themself and then of their past, the heirloom means nothing.

But that's the thing about heirlooms. Once you find out their worth, they suddenly become priceless.

Mr. MakePeace

I liked to stick to my guns

like we were at the OK corral

for all intensive purposes, we were

It's for all intents and purposes, moron

so we were in a shootout

for who spoke of it all the better way

the more mature way

agree to disagree---

to have a standoff of meaningless proportions

of the utmost importance

and I will stand here

and I will stand here

and then we will cock everything back

and wait---

for high noon

Sub Traction

There were claims to the contrary

but I never liked being contrary---

at all

it seemed to defeat the point, right?

adjunct and advocates and such

because then it was always the match point

with ad ins

and ad outs---

and such

And I liked to take credit for things I didn't do---

because it seemed to all add up---

what with Swift and his ad infinitum

and all this adhocracy nonsense

we should be doing it all ad libitum---

and such

and all be addisons with effortless addition

then we would all be unchanged

unbothered

untouched by the disease of nostalgia---

Layer Caked

You died a very long time ago---

you win, my friend from years and years ago

I am waving the white flag of surrender---

The song wafted through the air with only one purpose in mind

to break my heart

slowly and methodically

and into as many pieces as possible

building a neck that I was reticent to walk on---

for fear of---

There was this one day---

when you were incessantly smiling

and you remembered how to forgive yourself

and you were so very beautiful

And you were flawless---

with the tapestry of your imperfections

I wrote them down

each and every one---

as I had always said

that put me in a drunken stupor

that put me over the moon

for you

my distant love

from days and days ago

The Great Pretender

You gave me a new reason to break my legs in half. A new reason to bend over backwards and jump rope until infinity. You made me feel special--until you didn't.

You taught me how to be a liar. And for that, I am eternally grateful. Now I know all the expressions. And I keep them here--in my back pocket.

You reminded me of the importance of superficiality. From you I taught myself peripheral vision. How to go along with the crowd, how to be your center of attention--knowing all along without any semblance of eye contact.

You taught me how to turn my back on someone. And forget about it within minutes. And how to appreciate that medicine they told me would let me think less of you--and it did just that.

You were the reason I learned how to frown. And all I really wanted to tell you was that you were some teacher--that and that I no longer hated you.

But you were some kind of antidote. You were easy on the eyes, too. But you were a widower to the ghost. The ghost of everything I believed in you.

And me the stepping stool--now my pedestal.

The Last Dance of An Icicle

An aspiring stalactite was all you could call him

that's all he ever wanted to be

with only one sound worth anything

until his nemesis was on the horizon

brightening

making everyone else's day better

They would forget him there

by the gutter

and he would slip away

drip

drip drip

drip drip drip

drip

until there was almost nothing of him left---

and the way he would peer through the window at them

opening their gifts and giving hugs that he would never get---

drip drip drip drip

and he was nothing more than a memory of that holiday

and the backdrop they would see out of the corner of their eye

---slip

All Through The House

I liked to talk myself into these stories---

so that I could remember yesterday and the day before that and the day before that

until then---

and I would remember pajamas that I secretly loved because they made me then

and I remember being the blue girl and boy with a love for his written word

and Oreos

always Oreos---

At night, they would put us up in the room with the Springsteen poster---

on an angled ceiling

and I would wait for the smell of eggs

and I would look for the Leg Lamp in the distance

and the rebirth of the day's cold air

because that's how we dealt with impatience then

There was no death on the horizon---

only the concerns of the Magnificent Seven---

and their seven and the seven after that and the seven after that

and how we would keep the trains moving back then

even on dithering track in my little diorama

without breaking so much as an ornament---

The Disturbing Demise of Daphne the Diver

Up and up and up and up and up and up and up the ladder

she would climb

in the early morning hours

so high in fact that her torso was in the clouds

and her legs down here with us mere mortals

But she knew what she was doing

in the pike position she managed to be the greatest architect

of the safety six, she had mastered them all

And once

when he was watching from his own skyscraper

with his flawless complexion and wayfarers

her opportunistic side rose to the surface

She was a failed trapeze artist

but he was none the wiser

and that day, he would see her in a new light

And with that

with her black swim cap

and red rouge on her lips and cheeks

she climbed and made certain of her peripheral

But even with those six

went went

tuck tuck

bang

bang

until she became the sole inhabitant of the deep end

Which is where he found her

magnificent with blood coming from up there

and weaving an unrequited and kaleidoscopic love letter

through his chlorine

Wells Being

So often life was a measure of one thing---

whether you were the type to sink

or swim

and now it's so---

it's so that we get to talk about treading

and buoyancy

and breathing the wrong way

and all the dominoed reasons why we probably have an upper respiratory disorder

from all the toxicologies that had never been made---

that was it---

I was certain of it

we were the healthy carriers of an unfortunate parasite

a misunderstanding of what it was all for

and what we should have done---

all along---

was take a sewing kit and stitch that isthmus right up

so nothing could get in or out

and you could stop sinking your teeth in to things that didn't belong to you---

just for the sake of making us all metaphors

or at least you could take these water wings off of me---

we didn't all need to be so pathetic

The Plight of a Once and Former Agist

It's no surprise that the end of every year always brings about thoughts of aging, achievements or lack thereof, and reasons we start to notice our age getting the best of us. Having said that, here is a short laundry list I like to call, "You know you're getting up there when..."

(1) The first version of the Prius is starting to look angular.

(2) Your favorite radio station always claims to play the "best of the 80s, 90s, and today." But today, it dawns upon you that in a little less than two weeks, they'll likely have to say, the 80s, 90s, and ____??? This is the end of another decade. Fuck.

(3) You realize that the term "turn of the century" now applies to your generation and not only when people hearken back to the Victorian age and the Magnificent Ambersons.

(4) Boyz II Men is considered retro. Enough said.

(5) 2D-animation is confusing to little kids--and by confusing I mean foreign--and by foreign I mean they only know from Pixar and Shrek.

(6) You try and try but you cannot remember the seven digit landline phone number you had as a kid.

(7) You have nieces or nephews (or children of your own) that were born after 9/11.

(8) During a power outage and/or the loss of internet access, you spend your afternoon seriously trying to remember life without google. How did you get anything done?

(9) " " " " life without GPS. How did you get anywhere?

(10) 2012 will mark the fourth time you are able to vote in a US presidential election.

If you're not in in your mid-late 20s, I know what you're thinking. If you're older, you're thinking you have a whole list that makes mine look like the whiny little generation Y-er you have always deemed me to be. If you're younger, then you don't fit half the criteria. But to all of you agists, and you are all agists--even if only in the way you judge yourself--welcome to the club.

Thus begins the need for optimism. As long as you're not down for the count, you can rest easy in these last 10 days.

Bring it on 2011.

Triple Dog

Ask me a question I know the answer to---

I dare you---

Ask me something wise and and scholarly and something that makes you out to be the academic that everyone believes you to be---

truly---

Ask me to tell you why you were the biggest disappointment---

I double dare you---

Ask me something worthy of my time and worthy of all the moments you robbed me of---

and then admit that you were the thief---

albeit intuitive

Pour me a glass of Bombay Sapphire and tell me once more that its contents were never quite as pretty as the blue in my eyes

I dare you, my once and former accomplice

Or---

just put your clothes back on

and walk on the coals with your feet of which you had the uttermost confidence

and all the while---

call this spade

a spade

The Atticus

It was a Sunday morning and she sat in the attic, listening the the growing sound of the rain. Rain made her feel less lonely and she imagined that he was somewhere sitting in a room just like this listening to this same act of God. She wondered if they, too, had daydreams about strangers daydreaming in weather halfway across the globe.

Daydreams upon daydreams was the key to her survival. She had been locked in that room for the better part of her adolescence. After her parents died in a horrific car crash, they took her away from him. She still didn't know where he was. Her only semblance of time was the sunrise and sunset--and the plate of food put under her door each day at precisely 1:07PM. Most days, while eating the meal, she wondered why they bothered. After all, they took away the only person she had left and the only reason to provide her with sustenance seemed to be the quelling of a guilty conscience.

She thought, they were all the same. And they never had a 'hug o war,' that ended with carpet burn. She felt sorry for them---the selfish ones. And at night, she slept easy, rubbing the scars on her elbows---dreaming of him and their secret---and how he was probably laughing just the same.

One day, she would have another bed. She was certain of it.

The Nature of the High Rise

We were a storied few with stories a plenty and heartbreaks amassed---

but as much as we lied to ourselves---

fairy tales were just that

and even longer fibs threaded with untruths

And fibs were the start of all problems

and all greatness

and I was all the wiser for sitting on the 43rd---

with such perspicaciousness

on my part

in this chapter

with hooks---

for holding--

onto everything else---

with too much to write down and document

and it all better left---

said here again

on the ground floor

The Demise of a Perfectly Good Compass

Stepford

and forward

and backward

and so forth

and so on

onward

and upward

and outward

and outbound

and inbound

southbound

and down

and latitude

for this

and that

longitude

and room for human error

that comes from being grounded

Thoroughfare

This was the last

oh, the last time I would let you be this way

That was the last time

or so it seems

as it were

where the balloons were beginning to stray

I grew up

up and out of you

because I was only indebted to you for reminding me of what I didn't want

and that---

was this

Over Heels

All I wanted was a midnight pixie---

with a tutu

and sparkles

and all the things that made me smile and remind me of what I wouldn't do---

and let my inhibitions loose

like it was a parallel universe

and we were in Gatsby's garden party

with all kinds of irreparable glances

With things flooding over---

with bathtub gin and sequined headbands

and feathers---

and all the things that made me more beautiful than I actually was

to them---

The Train of Thought of an Adolescent, Circa 1993

Dreams were as intoxicating as they had always been---

and the ignition

and the fountain

and the problem

and the solution

and the nucleus

And I remembered when I wasn't tired of my long hair---

and when effort wasn't obligatory

but rather---

my proving grounds

here with the fourth grade nothings---

When we slept together, I was certain we were, in fact--

diverged in a yellow wood

but everyone who's anyone believed that---

and on Fridays

in the back of a classroom

encouraged by the safety of that room---

during the thunderstorm

I remembered the weekend

(s)

The Bermuda Hour

When I was older, I would lie in bed with the lights dimmed and he would pull up a chair and watch me fall asleep. We had agreed to this many years earlier, when I was younger and I had mentioned casually in conversation that I didn't want to die alone.

In the winter of my life, he continued to remember that conversation and he would tuck me in until our talks ended with me dozing off midway through the argument over the best scene in LA CONFIDENTIAL. He had said it was the Christmas Eve Massacre and I said we would agree to disagree because there were few scenes better than the prologue and the--

And then I fell asleep. I liked to think he watched over me and that perhaps he stayed sitting in that chair until he too dozed, and then fell up late evening, or mid morning, depending on who you are and how you feel about the passage of time.

On the nights when the fog hovered over the acres behind the house, I invited him in earlier. I felt we needed a united front against its ominous and ubiquitous nature. I was, of course, at that time, completely in denial--as most people are.

But for once, and with great shame, I turned my back toward him and looked out on the sky. It was octarine and I was certain that we had never quite met.

The Fourth Degree

Could you give me a reason to stay here?

Something smarter than calling me on the nonexistence of infinity

Could you prove to me that gravity didn't ground us?

You could, but only by casting a large shadow and always walking ahead

Could you?

Could you do this for me, my love?

Could you show me all the ways we righted it all?

When we learned about being granted

taking

wishes---

The Opposite End

And so it goes

as it were---

at the end of the world---

off the edge of the cliff---

where the sidewalk ends--

per se

per se

because that's when it matters---

and that's when you look at the clarions

and you forget where the spectrum exists

and that things like magnets are something of importance

like that of gravity

as it were

per se

Kiss Kiss and Bang Bang

I was this close to telling you to knock it off---

right off

you were full of rum and whiskey and eggnog

and you were so desperate for the mistletoe

---but as with most things

there were more than one---

of you

and me

And I had gotten good

at the back and forth of it

and wearing sequins made it all so much more fun

especially when I was kissing someone---

without thinking of you

The Flat Footed

Butterflies were so much more glamorous in conversation---

seriously

They had nothing to offer except the thought of a unicorn

and a pleasantville

and a utopia that never existed

They were frail and brokenwinged

and brokenhearted---

Life had gotten to them---

just as it had the best of us

bested us

And they were limp

and sullied

and silly in their wishful thinking that they could

soar

---just like those silly rabbits and their tricks

Despicable was the first word that came to mind---

and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why

You made me sick to my stomach

and my only antidote was Bruce Springsteen

and talking about screen doors slamming

and heading to the middle of nowhere because

that's where good memories would always hunt me down

and sink through my pores

and then I could sit out there

without pessimism

and I would listen hard for the sound of a typewriter I once knew

out there---

somewhere near you

it was always near that---

after all, the keys breathed from disjointed tales

and they rusted with simplicity

which is why I lost it somewhere

----before here

Sighforsoreeyes

In my sleep last night, I reached out my hand to you and I let my vision blur so that I didn't have to think about all the reasons that we shouldn't be together.

And in my dream, you were good to me and you were serious and we didn't ask ourselves if we were better off without one another and we didn't even recognize foolish pride.

It wasn't in the vernacular because this was a string of silent beautiful moments that added up to us rejecting everything modern, especially the idea that we had outgrown each other.

Or had we?

We emanated from a generation of takers. Of people who liked to play Battleship and Jenga without the cognizance of Pangaea. Of wafflemakers and misplaced nostalgia. Of tracing paper.

Of stencils. Of fucking stencils.

My Huckleberry Friend

It's safe to say that in the twenty first century, and in a decade completely co-dependent on the puerile tendencies of pop culture, and that while we often see fireworks and spectacle, it's few and far between that we witness magic.

For me, magic in pop culture has always translated into some enigmatic moment in a motion picture or a lyric in a song that resonated with the pain and enchantment of my own life. And like all who become predecessors, I find a lot more of this magic in the pop culture product of the past. Why is that, I wonder?

It may be impossible to ever pin point the focal point of such a sentiment, to really nail down what such emotion is derivative of, but I do think there's merit in saying that we find ourselves captivated by things from our youth. And furthermore, I would go so far as to say we find ourselves yearning for the representation of pop culture when we were in fact a part of the age range that was igniting it as well.

We were dreamers. And there's a post partum depression going on in this country--and it's not from your child, it's from your childhood. When you hear someone today listening to that song from when they were nine years old, more often than not, I'll bet it's because they know something now that they didn't know then and not only get nostalgic, but they start trying to remember how they felt about it then versus how they're thinking about that feeling now. Eventually, that always leads to thinking about how happy and carefree they were when they experienced it for the first time. These are obvious and ubiquitous signs of this growing trend.

But the real reason that we, as adults, find magic in these memories, is because we are experiencing them again but with the knowledge of mortality. Because of that honest and morbid fact, we will innately love these trinkets of our childhood all the more because they function as our carbon dating, as what we contributed in our lifespan, and as what we will be remembered for. Even if we are looking at them through rose-colored glasses, on some level, we are proud of the contribution, knowing that it was only our era that produced that particular piece of pop culture.

What got me thinking about this was Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer, two artists not representative of my generation but perhaps are transcendent and cross generational in their impact on all of us. My only personal proof of that is of course the fact that a piece of their work strikes a chord about my childhood and moments of pop culture in my childhood and I didn't hear this song until much later in my life.

Mancini and Mercer were 37 and 51 respectively when Breakfast at Tiffany's came out, and Moon River is arguably their masterpiece. It's the one song that encompasses quite literally the full spectrum of human emotion. It talks to you like a child. It also talks to you as if from a child's perspective--and at the same time, it speaks to you about pain and happiness in a way that you could only know as an adult, and more importantly, an adult looking back on a childhood and wanting to lasso it once more.

It's very rare that a piece of art walks the line between both parts of a life successfully--and can speak to both of you simultaneously. Moon River hearkens back without regret and in its haunting arrangement, somehow also seems as if it's being played out the window of an apartment building, echoing down a New York City corridor. But more importantly, while breathing that childhood and dreamlike essence we all had at one point back into our minds--it also reminds us of the beauty of aging instead of making us sick over it. Oh dream makers, you heart breakers, that's what I like to call magic.

Listen for yourself. You won't be sorry...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCIQWV5B7Cs&feature=related

No Strings Attached

Christmas was the perfect time to murder you---

I would invite you over for egg nog and sugar snaps,

and songs that would be repeated in a drunken stupor

and too many people would be spiking the punch

none the wiser of the other---

You were up to your old tricks again

that's what they say about dogs like you

and I knew about Waikiki

and I didn't like it---

not one bit

But on the 24th, Christmas Eve---

I saw you pull up in a Studebaker in my crowded little driveway

Through a sea of people in my living room

and in sepia

is how I imagined I would remember this---

you walked under the palm trees

but I could see the cold breath from your lips

Dodie Stevens was singing about a Merry Christmas, Baby---

and I wiped away the tears when I measured the teaspoons of arsenic

I didn't want it to be this way---

but you understand, don't you?

I just thought that this year, I could make you my mistletoe---

and with the white twinkle lights,

I would string you up by your conscience---

And when they turned around

and sobered up from off the floor,

I'd be slow dancing with your legs

and we'd be the deathly window display they had always feared

Jealousy was a good color on me---

and as it turns out for you

---red

The Back Burner

I had this animus that was inexplicable---

toward you

and for so long, it seemed warranted

completely

certainly---

It's upsetting to think of all the things about you that upset me

but then I realized that I didn't really give a shit

about what would cause your demise

Just that it would cause your demise---

you were a circumstantial nuisance

who preyed my willingness to walk barefoot

and my naive sense of your character

It's appalling to think of all the times you----

and then apologized for it when enough time had passed

time of mine

Then I got tired of you being a simpleton who believed in complexity---

because that's what thieves do

---and it's fucking hot in here

The Memory of a Necklace

You wrapped me up in your arms and all I could hear was Dinah Washington because she told it like it was--and so did I

You told me I was remarkable and I didn't believe you for many years and we were always riding the great disconnect--and I knew you loved me the wrong way

You spoke highly of your worthlessness and on most occasions you made no sense and all the sense in the world--and I loved you the right way

You said you'd like to think that your girl, whenever that decade would come, would be a debutante in need of your hands and your being--and I said we didn't need each other

You asked me time and again to tell you how I felt, to profess the sentiments that set my chest on fire--and this time, I did--again

You knew I was stubborn and didn't care for me in spite of it, but because of it

--and I took advantage of that

But we were in a clouded haze of outdated nostalgia that didn't hold its weight here in this contemporary amnesia--and I kept it all to myself, up here, in my attic

And a Homecoming Queen

I shut the bathroom door and locked it---vigorously

and then I sighed

and let the room fill right up

because I liked steamed vegetables

and I smiled

and drew on the mirror---

little seahorses and maps of archipelagos that didn't exist

And when I was spraying apricots and peaches everywhere---

'so this is what it means to have your head in the clouds'

It was there--in the breathlessness of man made fog,

that I decided

with great perspicaciousness---

'I think I'll stay a bit longer'

The Dawn of a Decemberist

You know what I mean---

you do, even if you say you don't---you do because you do

and you were the contractions

and you were the reason for the contraptions

Isn't everything make believe?

the make believe?

of course it is and if you say otherwise then you are just a follower who sits at the altar of Houdini

which would make you some kind of optimist by default---

I suppose

But so often, my suppositions were deemed silliness---

but I was a very serious girl who didn't believe everything I read

especially these grand misconceptions that people breathe into our noses

and through our mouths

making our cheeks puffy with gluttony and senseless gossip

We were all shapeshifting and such---

and somewhere there is another type of being with marionette strings

looking at us in a big kaleidoscope

Because for now---

everything is fashionable