Day Failure. I mean, 5.

there once was a girl with a problem

all agreed she belonged in a mauso-leum

but a virus industrious

made her organs illustrious

for science, they decided museum

(crappy halfassed limericks... ftw?)

Day 4.

The small kitchen smelled of cheap beer and dusty wood, but the chairs were numerous, and the light from the overhead bulb cast farther than it should have in the dark hours when couples and families were asleep. Three men and a woman sat around it that night, propped up on leathery elbows and stories.

The speaker had all eyes; there was nothing better to look at in the dingy room, and they fed on the distant memories--hearing the small details like peeking through the cracks of a door. She had the softest hands... His eyes were like chocolate, and he smelled like... like redwood bark after it rains. They take turns, observing each with a savoring silence.

First, she says, first there was Jasper, who was there to greet me every day. The first thing I saw when I woke up was a huge smile....Sloppy kisser, but I loved him anyways. He wasn't there one day...I woke up to the afternoon sun in my room, and no Jasper... I never said goodbye. He liked to take long walks, but he'd always come back before...

Then... I wasn't ready-- wasn't looking for anything, but one night, Will came banging at my door, whinging, needed directions-- and I let him in. We do strange things when we're half-asleep.

He had hair like summer-- I used to comb through it, see the dark brown of the hair on his neck, under the sun-yellow . He was loud, and he made me louder. Our shouting matches...The neighbors complained a lot about us...

Three years after Will got in a car accident, my friend Pam introduced me to, well, his friends called him Spike... he was probably too young for me, he convinced himself he was older, pretended he knew me.... he had nerve... but it's hard to resist someone so persuading of their right-ness, I guess... he used to swagger around my apartment, leap on top of all the furniture, make silly faces at me ... He had nerve. Got in a bad way after a fight in the stairwell, and it was the last straw....my landlady put up the No Pets sign not long after that.

She looks over, a quick flicker of her fingers motioning the next speaker to get on with it.

He clears his throat, a long process, but they wait.

Day 3.

Marching Band: The Musical (scene 1)

(Scene opens in a high school band room, on the first day of school. New kid Cal has just walked in, to chaos and confusion as he tries to find someone who will fix his messed up schedule. Kevin, the world's nosiest (and gayest) euphonium, is handing out music and has just spotted Cal. Band director MS. STEPHENS is holding up a hand and looking at her watch.)

KEVIN: WHERE ARE MY MELLOS? Scuse me, what instrument are you on?

CAL: No, I'm not, I mean--

KEVIN: Wait, were you at band camp?

CAL: No, I'm not in this class, I'm new here and my schedule is wrong, I think they made a mistake in the office--

KEVIN: Oh shit how long has Stephens been counting? SHHHHHH (quieter) We'll figure you out, don't worry.

(Everyone quiets down)

MS. STEPHENS: ....28, 29, 30.... Disgraceful. And on the first day.

Sit down all of you wallflowers in the back, I'm passing around a sheet and it'll miss you if you're hiding in the corner like Sweater Boy.

CAL: Who's Sweater Boy?

KEVIN: Wore an argyle sweatervest first day of band camp, sat in the corner and cried the next two weeks. Shh!

MS. STEPHENS: Just your name and your instrument, please. No, Sam, just one instrument. No you cannot switch between movements that is preposterous! Now, while that's going around, introduce yourselves. Hal-- where are you-- Hal, start us off.

HAL: Hi, I'm Hal, and I'm the drum major, but I play--

KEVIN: --the hearts of every girl and half the boys here. Don't fall for him.

CAL: Why? I mean, wha--

KEVIN: Because you spend whatever moment you're not looking at turf looking at your drum major. And he's unattainable. Ugh he grew out his bangs since band camp. That hair flip? Makes lesser women swoon.

KEVIN: And I know we'll have a great season!

DEBORAH: (almost inaudible) Hello, my name is Deborah...

KEVIN: That's her outside voice, but wait till the dancing starts at band parties.... we call her Dirty Deb....

DEBORAH: And I play the clarinet and sometimes the flute but not very often.

SARA: Heyyy guys, I'm Sarah (she licks the corner of her mouth)

KEVIN: SLUTSTRAVAGANZA! Love her.

JOHN: (leans over to talk to CAL) Hey, wanna join our betting pool? Kevin's odds are 3:1 because he likes to convince himself he's metro, starting bet is five...

VARIOUS MALES IN THE ROOM: She'll take you to funky town!

Hey baby!

LOW RIDAAAA

SARA: Can't wait to get to know y'all a little better!

JOHN: Yo, John, trombone

KEVIN: Brasshole.

CAL: What?

KEVIN: you'll see.

CAL: I'm Cal, I don't know what's going on but I'm here.

KEVIN: Yes he does. I'm Kevin, I play Euphonium, I'm awesome at it.

BEN: Hey, I'm Ben and this is my french horn, which I won't see for six months, because for some reason they invented the mellophone. God I hate marching band.

KEVIN: He's joking, I'm pretty sure he stayed back a year because there's no music program at the community college.

BEN: Goddammit Kevin that is not true, stop slandering all of us to the new kid.

CAL: Hi, I'm Cal.

BEN: Yeah, that new kid.

KEVIN: Ben likes to blaspheme.

BEN: Jesus.

MS. STEPHENS: You windbags, there's only thirty minutes left of class and we need to do uniform findings! I mean fittings. Go look in the closet. Hal? Who did we decide was the director assistant?

HAL: No one, you spit on the last application, said their essay lacked pizazz.

MS. STEPHENS: Oh yes....

CAL: Does she always insult everyone this much?

KEVIN: Deep seated insecurities.

CAL: (realizes MS. STEPHENS is behind them)

MS. STEPHENS: KEVIN! My assistant! Write down everyone's weight and height, will you? I think Riley organized the uniforms last year after he got ten hours of community service for blowing up the pool.....

KEVIN: Crap. Come with me, this will take AGES.....

CAL: O...kay?

KEVIN: So the first football game is this friday, have you decided on an instrument yet?

CAL: I haven't decided if I'm taking this CLASS yet!

KEVIN: You are. I'm invested in you now, you've been introduced, it would get messy if you backed out.

Trombone. You'll be a trombone, John is loud enough to cover for four of them not playing. LINE UP! LINES. SOME PEOPLE CAN MAKE THEM. NOT US, BUT, YOU KNOW...

Okay, Jennifer, height and weight.

JENNIFER: It fluctuates!

KEVIN: Height?

JENNIFER: 5'6''.

KEVIN: Try #45 and get back to me.

CAL: Why do you have to do this?

KEVIN: You'll see, we're supposed to have band leadership, but eventually everyone is willing to pick up some job....

You get really.... into it. Like your band director's worries become your worries for a season. Example, your equipment, uniform, all this. That attractive overall garment is a bibber, over that's your jacket, you got gloves, you got Dinkles, which you will wear until you cannot feel, the pretty feathered cherry on this asscake is called a shako, (he pauses handing out uniform bags) Basically: What you see? What you get. Got it? So look....shiny. And keep track of your stuff, everything looks the same...

(Students are looking through rack of uniforms)

Are these my bibbers?

Check the size!

What's my number?

How do I remember what your number is??

Where's my dinkles, did they fall out of the bag?

I have one glove, THEY COME IN TWOS, YOU GUYS, WHAT IS THIS

...Where's my gloves? These are filthy!

(students, rounds of chanting)

Bibber bibber bibber bibber bibber bibber bibber bibber

dinkle dinkle dinkle dinkle dinkle dinkle dinkle dinkle

sh sh sh sh shako

CAL: (aside) It was like everything was dissolving into this strange world of beasts and chaos and shouting and tribal dancing.... (CAL is shoved into a side room)

BEN: Welcome to the jungle!

(hands CAL a crumpled uniform bag)

CAL: Is that a hairball?

HAL: we have a don't ask, don't tell policy in the man closet *wink*

(Girls knock/bang at the door)

WE NEED TO GET OUR UNIFORMS FROM IN THERE!

RANDOM MALE STUDENTS: WHO'S BEEN SHITTING IN THE CORNER OF THE MAN CLOSET? IT SMELLS RANCID, THIS SHIT IS WRONG.

GET OUT, YOU ARE NOT WORTHY

THIS IS WHY WE DON'T HAVE NICE THINGS!

CAL: (aside) You know those experiments in Japan, with the genetic modification? It's like I'm a watermelon, and everyone else here is the mutated square watermelons. And we're all in a box together, and they're going to beat me up for being round. ......But I guess it was the same at my last high school.

Day 2.

The Patient

(scene opens on two nurses, Claudia and Greg. Greg is talking to a thirty-year-old patient with an infected cut, while Claudia finishes entering information.)

GREG: So you should be good to go now.

PATIENT: Okay, thanks. Uh, when do you think it'll be all better?

GREG: Two days. Tops.

(Patient looks reassured)

GREG: Yeah, this is piddles. Nothing. The pus is just your body saying, We can handle this on our own, we don't need a hospital or a nurse named Greg or sterilized gauze; we're on top of this shit. Yeah?

PATIENT: (looks slightly uncomfortable) Yeah.

CLAUDIA: I got a cut infected once, got real bad. Hurts like a mother, doesn't it? You just rest up now.

PATIENT: Yeah. (nods, laughs, gets to feet, walks out)

GREG: Goddammit Claudia you always do this.

CLAUDIA: What? What are you talking about?

GREG: It was a tiny cut. I bet it didn't even hurt him that much. You have to automatically dock at least two numbers from whatever their pain scale answer is. If they actually could experience a ten, it'd be a different story.

CLAUDIA: Only the parents do that, for their kids. Everyone, when they're answering for themselves, tries to balance being tough versus being actually cared for, have you noticed that?

GREG: So the whole, "Oh it doesn't hurt that much, I mean, I can take it" thing, that's the illusion.

CLAUDIA: It's human nature!

GREG: So why indulge it?

CLAUDIA: Because once they know that they're not going to die, they want to know that their pain is understood.

GREG: You're....you're legitimizing their hypochondria!

CLAUDIA: I don't think so.

GREG: Yes you are! Patients should be told what they need to know.

The patient finishes paying at the front desk, looks back, and waves to Claudia, who waves, smiles, and nudges Greg to wave back too.

Greg mutters indistinctly under his breath.

Day 1.

I think one of the central jobs of art is to name stuff for us, to give shape and language to the things we feel in isolation. --John Green

it feels like somebody took my heart and dropped it into a bucket of boiling tears... and at the same time, somebody else is hitting my soul in the crotch with a frozen sledgehammer... and then a third guy walks in and starts punching me in the grief bone... and I'm crying, and nobody can hear me, because I'm terribly, terribly... terribly alone.

--michael scott

You laugh. You well up a bit.

Any emotion, if followed along their deepest course, runs to these-- laughter, crying, love and hate, congealed into one scab of emotion. It's why we love antithesis.

"The opposite of war isn't peace... it's creation!"--Rent

I love the sound of creation, fingers racing to henpeck, type out the letters at thoughtspeed.

Creation tastes new, takes a minute to sink in. Then we decide. Then we comment. Then we react.

I've spent too much time looking for other people who have said it better. Let them build me up, particle by particle of influence and mythology, but not define me.

So my only New Year's Resolution, the only one I think and hope I can keep, is to create something new every day.

(So I started small.)

Eight Layer Bars To Eat Over The Sink At 2:20 AM (adapted from Teens Cook :D )

heat oven to 350

1. mix 2 c. graham cracker crumbs and 1 stick butter in a 9x13 pan, pat down

2. layer on: 1.5 c coconut

3. 1 cup chocolate chips

4. 1 cup butterscotch

5. 1.5 c nuts

6. 1 c. chopped dried figs

7. 1 14 oz. can sweetened condensed milk (drizzle over everything)

(taste all ingredients separately prior to baking for 30-40 minutes)

feeling low

when will i stop hurting other people?

The World I Come From

I have a genetic tendency to worry. 

Passed down through my father's grandfather, who decided not to teach his son to swim for fear he'd drown in the process--

Worry accompanied by the knowledge of its rationality.

They had a lost a son to the ocean. 

Passed down through my father, whose parents left him and went on a camping trip-- after two days, he called the ranger, asked to check that they were alive and well-- he was 40, it was all the same--

My father's list is the speed-dial of his ever-present cellphone. 

1-- All messages

2-- His sister, Barbara

3--His younger sister, Lorraine

4-- His wife

5--Nana

6--Connie

7--Me

Passed down to me, morbidly cataloguing my friends most likely to kill themselves in pursuit of adventure. Friends who feel the most, or numb themselves worst. My mental list. 

We resort to survival strategies-- one summer, my mom watched all seven kids, cousins and sisters and brothers, me in her arms, the rest in the merced river. Not an L.A. river, bound in concrete angles, limited: a Yosemite river, with rapid swaths of white and deceptively slippery rocks and mournful trees, hiding the riverbank with their hair of branches. 

one two three four five six seven. She kept up a vigil of counting. 

one two three four five six seven. 

We fill our minds with equally possible events, each riveting to contemplate. 

And there is something safe-feeling about being complete in my little universe.

One two three. 

My family. 

My friends.

My habits. 

The worries keep me in the backseat, make my voice wobble at important moments, make me doubt where each action will take me. 

What if?

I keep an open mind. 

Can't find my copy of Hamlet, am resorting to sparknotes side by side shakespeare online-- the side by sides get hilarious:

This heavy-headed revel east and west

Makes us traduced and taxed of other nations.

becomes

Other countries criticize us for our loud partying.

Shakespeare exits stage, forcefully vomiting. 

"I bet Riemann had no friends"

what nostalgia smells like

ivory soap smells like childhood. 

mom got some today and washing my hands brought it all back-- the airy clean smell alone summoning connie and i sitting on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, carving birds with plastic knives. soap flaking away, drifting down. our snow.