Here inside the drug, colors drag. Seven or eight siblings flock around their mother before all but the oldest leave the campground together. Another time, it's cold and they help each other build a fire.
Skirt bunched and caught in my fists, in this pond there are real lilypads. If I asked you what you saw you wouldn't say lilypads, but if I said look at the lilypads you'd look, even if I'd made them up.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
"Three possible 'Anya' beginnings"
The most annoying project of my life! Usually I call it Letters to Anya, but it's also been Letters to Daniel, Letters to Anya and Daniel, and Letters to. When I first started writing these, they were for my friend N. ("Anya"), whom* I was having trouble communicating with. Now they're taking up tons of room in all three of my e-mail inboxes, as well as more space on my laptop's hard drive than you can possibly imagine. Here are some of the first Letters to Anya ever written. (The first one isn't even a letter.)
__________
1. Anya's eyes weren't like other people's. Before I knew her I would make fun of her with my roommate, Sam. We'd open our eyes as wide as we could and pretend to be Anya. Her limbs were thin and seemingly devoid of muscle, like toothpicks. Her head was too big for her body. She was dramatic in the writing classes we had with her, always gesturing wildly and talking with her hands. Sometimes she'd close her big eyes for emphasis, like whatever she was talking about was so overwhelming she couldn't stand to keep looking at the rest of us. Sam and I had a term for the pieces Anya wrote. It was very the-birds-and-the-trees, we'd say - writing that assigned melodramatic meaning to trivial things.
2. Anya, you looked like a tennis ball stuck on to a T of toothpicks, like someone who might topple over if you lolled too far to one side. You smoked five cigarettes an hour and got away with showering only once every three to four days. In class you sometimes closed your eyes while you spoke, as if you were so taken by your own words you couldn't stand to look at anyone. You wore your issues like accessories, without shame or any attempt to pretend you were doing okay. You didn't try to act like you weren't sick. You were everything I'd always been curious about.
3. Off the plane I take small steps, my eyes on the signs that hang from the ceiling, my stomach wringing itself out like a wet dishrag. I grip the sweaty metal pole in the tram car, watching my reflection in the opposite window. The car speeds along the track, hurtling toward baggage claim, where I know you're waiting. Inexplicably, I don't want to see you. When the tram comes to a stop, I exit quickly. Defiantly. You're my best friend; of course I want to see you.
__________
*I have no idea if this is how you're supposed to use the word "whom." Do you?
1. Anya's eyes weren't like other people's. Before I knew her I would make fun of her with my roommate, Sam. We'd open our eyes as wide as we could and pretend to be Anya. Her limbs were thin and seemingly devoid of muscle, like toothpicks. Her head was too big for her body. She was dramatic in the writing classes we had with her, always gesturing wildly and talking with her hands. Sometimes she'd close her big eyes for emphasis, like whatever she was talking about was so overwhelming she couldn't stand to keep looking at the rest of us. Sam and I had a term for the pieces Anya wrote. It was very the-birds-and-the-trees, we'd say - writing that assigned melodramatic meaning to trivial things.
2. Anya, you looked like a tennis ball stuck on to a T of toothpicks, like someone who might topple over if you lolled too far to one side. You smoked five cigarettes an hour and got away with showering only once every three to four days. In class you sometimes closed your eyes while you spoke, as if you were so taken by your own words you couldn't stand to look at anyone. You wore your issues like accessories, without shame or any attempt to pretend you were doing okay. You didn't try to act like you weren't sick. You were everything I'd always been curious about.
3. Off the plane I take small steps, my eyes on the signs that hang from the ceiling, my stomach wringing itself out like a wet dishrag. I grip the sweaty metal pole in the tram car, watching my reflection in the opposite window. The car speeds along the track, hurtling toward baggage claim, where I know you're waiting. Inexplicably, I don't want to see you. When the tram comes to a stop, I exit quickly. Defiantly. You're my best friend; of course I want to see you.
*I have no idea if this is how you're supposed to use the word "whom." Do you?
Monday, January 02, 2012
"Other people's words Part I - Orchid"
1. An "orchid" is a member of the Orchidacae Family characterized by its three-petaled flowers.
2. Suppose you've never once seen an orchid, that when you woke up this morning you had no idea what one might look like. Then suppose later in the day you're at a friend's house, and your friend's got a vase on display, and in this vase is the most beautiful flower you've ever seen. You say to your friend, "What kind of flower is that?" and she says, "It's an orchid."
You've never seen an orchid before, so it's safe to say you know very little - if anything - about orchids. If anyone were to ask, you might say, "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about orchids as a species." In fact, if you say this, you know even less than you think you do. Experts estimate that the number of species of orchids lies somewhere between 21,000 and 25,000. Meaning: today you learned that a flower you wouldn't have recognized yesterday is called an orchid, and for as long as you retain this knowledge, you'll know that your friend's flower is an orchid. But actually, what you learned today is like finding out that a creature with wings that has feathers and a beak and hatches from an egg is called a "bird." You see? In truth, you haven't learned anything at all.
3. What if, instead of person, you were orchid?
Or, if life as an orchid is too far of a stretch: what if you were like an orchid? What if you didn't know what you were called? Could you stand being referred to as simply "a person" in a sea of other people? Could you live your whole life believing you didn't have your own name?
2. Suppose you've never once seen an orchid, that when you woke up this morning you had no idea what one might look like. Then suppose later in the day you're at a friend's house, and your friend's got a vase on display, and in this vase is the most beautiful flower you've ever seen. You say to your friend, "What kind of flower is that?" and she says, "It's an orchid."
You've never seen an orchid before, so it's safe to say you know very little - if anything - about orchids. If anyone were to ask, you might say, "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about orchids as a species." In fact, if you say this, you know even less than you think you do. Experts estimate that the number of species of orchids lies somewhere between 21,000 and 25,000. Meaning: today you learned that a flower you wouldn't have recognized yesterday is called an orchid, and for as long as you retain this knowledge, you'll know that your friend's flower is an orchid. But actually, what you learned today is like finding out that a creature with wings that has feathers and a beak and hatches from an egg is called a "bird." You see? In truth, you haven't learned anything at all.
3. What if, instead of person, you were orchid?
Or, if life as an orchid is too far of a stretch: what if you were like an orchid? What if you didn't know what you were called? Could you stand being referred to as simply "a person" in a sea of other people? Could you live your whole life believing you didn't have your own name?
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