Sing. Sing Out Loud.

I am at work.
See me at work.
I will marry you.

I am at home.
See me at home.
I will marry you.

You are not going out into the wet.

This was my first composition. The actual piece of paper exists somewhere in my mother's extensive files. She wrote it down, of course, because I could not yet read nor write. It was a song, to be exact. Some day I might sing it for you. Likely I will not. I don't know what made me think of this today, but I did think about it. For much too long. Nevertheless, here is my analysis:

Work comes first, sadly even when I was three.
"Marry" is perpetually in the future tense.
Clearly, I am a young advocate of cohabitation.
One is expected to work wiith one's life partner. Unfortunately, that didn't end so well for my mom and dad. Or my mom and stepdad. Or my mom and my second stepdad.
I am comfortable giving orders. At least this order.
The "wet" is to be avoided at all costs.
If I recall, the song is to be sung in a minor key.

For my next installment, we will revisit the Amelia Bedelia book that I translated into my own "special language." This was not a written language – rather, it was an improvised spoken gibberish, because then no one could ever find the key.

Are You Alive?

A play in three short scenes
Dedicated to my dear friend, Nia.

I.

Rosie: Are you alive?
Nia: No.
Rosie: Really?
Nia: Really.
Rosie: Well, shit.

II.

Rosie: Are you alive?
Nia: Possibly...
Rosie: What's it depend on?
Nia: What you want.
Rosie: Ooh. Ooh. I know. I want a Greek salad, some warm toasted bread, a frosty beverage, and some new shoes. And--
Nia: Nope. Definitely not alive.

III

Rosie: Psst.
Nia: ...
Rosie: Psst. Nia.
Nia: I'm busy.
Rosie: I know, but I'm bored again. I might be in hell.
Nia: Am I there?
Rosie: I don't think so. No one here seems to know you.
Nia: Niice. How'd I bypass that place?
Rosie: You made friends with the guy at the door.
Nia: Oh. Right.
Rosie: He says hi by the way.
Nia: Patrick?
Rosie: Javon.
Nia: With the hair.
Rosie: Yep.

(pause)

Rosie: Okay. Well. I'll just be down here if you need anything. From Hell.
Nia: Do they have any garlic?
Rosie: Only garlic powder.
Nia: Of course. Nevermind.

(pause)

Rosie: So...Nia...
Nia: Yeah...
Rosie: If I'm in Hell and you're not, does that mean you're alive?
Nia: Completely. I'm very much alive.
Rosie: But you said you weren't.
Nia: When?
Rosie: In the other two scenes.
Nia: I was just fuckin' with ya, doll.
Rosie: Oh, you!

(Nia and Rosie laugh and laugh and laugh while a Buddy Holly song plays in the background.)

The End.

Does this ever happen to you?

You take a bite of something containing Swiss cheese, and think “Huh, something tastes weird and I don’t like it…oh, it’s Swiss cheese. Okay. That’s fine.”

You’ve thought for a long time…like since you stopped growing…that your feet were a size 7 ½, only to discover that your feet might actually be a size 7. Subsequently, shoes start fitting much better.

The idea of the larger, attached toothpaste cap seems appealing, but in truth, the toothpaste seeps out and gums up the entire cap defeating it’s entire purpose.

All you want in the entire world is a sweet potato for dinner.

Sometimes, when you want to calm yourself, you think back to the book order forms of 3rd grade that offered new books at reasonable prices, AND if you reached a certain minimum you’d also receive a large poster of a kitten.



It seems like a good idea to try the monkey bars are the playground on the corner, but it merely reminds you of your sorry state of physical fitness.

You’re lying in bed and the window is open a crack. The cooing of the pigeons begins around 6am. It filters into your dreams until you begin to fear the pigeons are surrounding your apartment inpreparation for their impending attack.

You play the 3 Strikes game with parking meters: you don’t feed the meter 2 times, which means you HAVE to feed the meter the 3rd time, or you’re certain to get a ticket. Logical.

You observe and are then bothered by the obvious way Hyundai designs cars to look like recent models of the Honda Accord and Toyota Corolla.

Vacuuming gives you an enormous sense of accomplishment.

Me neither.

he and she

"If you could have anything in the world," he asked. "What would it be?" She didn't answer right away, because she knew she couldn't take it back. It was like the three wishes question, which everyone messes up. She felt a little silly taking the question so seriously. He wasn't a genie, so even if it weren't properly phrased, disaster would not be waiting around the corner. Actually, disaster could be waiting around the corner, but likely it wouldn't have anything to do with her answer to this question. Still, she needed some clarification.

"Anything in the world?" she asked. "Does it have to be an object? Could it be a person? Could it be a concept? Could it be an idea?"

"Oh, just answer it. Off the top of your head. 1-2-3. What do you want?" he pressed.

"This is not an off-the-top-of-my-head question. This is a big question that could have consequences. For example, what if I blurted out 'you?' That would be big. That 'you' would just be sitting here, between us, sorta dead on its side like a goldfish. Not that I'm gonna say 'you.' I'm just using that as an example of how an impulsive answer to this question could go terribly wrong."

"Is it me?" he asked.

"No." she said.

"It's okay if it's me."

"It's not."

"Then what is it?"

"I think I'd want to remember my dreams. I never do."

"That's it?" he asked. "But you couldn't do anything with that. It's not tangible. It doesn't change anything. Whether you remember your dreams or not, you're still exactly the same."

"Not the same at all," she said. "I'd dream about all the things I can't have. And in my dreams I'd have him."

He didn't say anything. She stared at the bench. But somewhere a goldfish was swimming around just fine.

perfect 10

a perfect 10


She was a great gymnast. Her flips and turns and dismounts were mesmerizing. She was Olympic-grade; she was...a sight to behold. She wore a sparkly costume like they do in the circus. Blue sequins that spiraled down her arms like Mardi Gras snakes. Her black hair was always in a bun, or in a braid, or flowing behind her. Her age was ten, or sixteen, or twenty-nine. In your mind she was undefeatable. The car would have to travel at a certain speed: not too fast, and not stuck in the kind of traffic that requires a rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the breaks. At the right speed—a steady forty miles an hour—she could fly. You never saw how she began. There wasn't enough time to witness the climb from pavement to bar. You caught her in motion. She whipped around the street lamp arms with grace and power. And as the car coasted from light to light, she performed the feats of an accomplished acrobat. She was not an ordinary gymnast, for she traveled forward as one must on the monkey bars. She was not an ordinary gymnast, for her "bars" were thirty feet from the ground. From one street lamp to the next, she glided through the air. Half-turns, double turns, back flips, fully extended or with her knees hugged tight to her chest, she catapulted. She never looked back. She never fell. She never made a mistake. She had an audience of one, but it could easily have been thousands cheering her on from countless passenger windows. The routine was flawless.


But then, without warning:



The light turned red.



Or the car turned left.



Or the rain began.



Or the cell phone rang.



Or the siren blared.



Or the rabbit darted.



Or the coffee spilled.



Or the driver spoke to you.



And so she stopped.