Here comes the flood, part 2.

When I returned from a bitter cold New Jersey
Obscenely large scarf wrapped tightly around my neck
I fumbled with my keys at the entrance to my apartment
Before looking down.
Mail from Sarasota.
My eyes sparkled, I'm sure of it.
Gleamed like a Japanese cartoon character as I clutched the box under my arm
Raced into my apartment with it, nearly tore it open.

A tattered white box with carefully taped cutouts of squid, sperm whales
Every man I've ever loved has written his name like a child.
It was filled with treasure.
Well, things that only you and I consider treasure, I suppose,
Which only made it better.
Paper scraps, an old book, a coveted zippo, your words and sloppy drawings
A card addressed to Bonnie,
Love Clyde.

You're coming home tomorrow.

I sat at my windowsill tonight
Staring out at the train station that you said you'd like to make your grand entrance from
Your triumphant return with a grappling hook and a tiger suit
Crashing back into my living room, into my world
I lit my cigarette with the zippo and
Rubbed the side of my thumb over it's worn engraving of a ship
And thanked my lucky stars for the flood walls in Shockoe Bottom.

Befriend a hen in 2010.

On the last day of the year
The sky was overcast
I was getting a little sick,
I felt the tickle in the back of my throat.
I had just watched a movie about the apocalypse
As I walked toward the parking lot
The window made a frame around the back of your head
As you walked to your car, arm in arm with a woman I don't know
I recognized your walk
A slight bounce, you walk on the balls of your feet
The red plaid shirt your dad gave you that you wear like a jacket
You needed a haircut.
I watched you turn her and kiss her and my lungs filled up with lakewater
My words caught behind my tonsils
And I choked out
"Let's stand here for a minute, I don't want to go outside" to Matthew
Who politely obliged. Stood as I stared.
On the first day of the year, I realized why I was sad--
I don't know you anymore.

People say friends don't destroy one another, what do they know about friends?

It's all pockets.
Yours, ripped clean through
From a night when we were happy
And I followed you home on your motorcycle
You laid the bike down-- showing off
Circling a monument to a dead villain war hero
The pocket, the only casualty.
My heart lodged between my teeth for an hour afterward
That was when I realized just how much I cared. I didn't tell you.
You wear the pants every day still
A monument to the idea of charmed existence, to lady luck.

And my pocket, now
Where I put these things away:
An owl feather, the damaged lone ranger postcard, the idea of a letter
never sent, Oregon, toy tigers, the good and bad stomach aches, silk
flowers and bolo ties, Bonnie and Clyde...

And so I slip my foot into another pocket
The one on the dash of my timebomb of a car
Knee above shoulder
And I blow out my speakers and my vocal chords
And I sing.

Fuck I miss you.

Shameless.

I won't pretend. This is a post to say, hey look, I am getting kind of skinny.

Rare birds fly south.

A train was rumbling by
And my words pierced the darkness
Can I put my arm on you?
And you grabbed my arm,
Laid it over your chest and held my hand inside of your palm
And out it fell:
I am going to miss you so much.
And you turned to me and agreed, squeezing my thumb, and my heart was so full inside of my chest
I could feel it grazing the inside of my cage of ribs
Prowling in circles, like a captive polar bear
Begging to not be protected anymore, to be set free
Not for long, I said.
I sure hope not, you said.
I still kiss like a walrus, you said.
And I said show me.

When we finally slept at 4am
As one, exhaling body
You put your hands in my hair.
“Goodnight Bonnie.”
“Goodnight, Clyde.”

snip.

On the day we decided
That that house was the one
I remember standing outside for a few minutes, looking at it's strange front
On a block full of normal looking houses
It stood stoutly, starkly
Like the mexican restaurant of the block.

A huge Magnolia tree shaded it's front.
I had never seen one before--
The gigantic velvet blossoms softened my eyes.
When I begged you to say yes to the house I grinned and repeated:
"That's our tree! I know it!"

Later on, we groaned about the carpet of brittle brown leaves that it dropped,
But at night, the blossoms would shine like miniature moons
Reflecting the porch light when we came home.
To our home, our life.

And so on the last day that we owned it together--
On the last day that we had something that bound us together
With the hairy, prickly twine of complications and bills and legal documents,
Magnolia leaves and branches and blossoms...
I took the tree with me.

Settled, if unsettled.

Here I am.
Minus things. Plus things.

Happy Halloween!

From an Andrews Sister...


A 1920's Strongman...


Richie and Margot....


And Paula Deen (pictured: far right)

An Epic evening on the RVA Ghost Ship, followed by jumping in the river in 1/2 of our costumes (???) followed by going to Cous Cous soaking wet and dancing on the dancefloor for an hour, barefoot and soaked. Followed by Alladins.

All in all, the most wonderful Halloween EVER, minus one Alice Virginia McClain.

Nesting.

I'm packing up the things I want, slowly but surely
Because you said you don't want anything
And certainly not from me
And I'm taking the thick, green cups
And the 1950's radio
The Chinese laundromat sign that hung over the cabinet
My travel photo collection,
And all of the framed nonsense
The sanctified garbage that I clutch to my chest like treasure...

But I'm leaving the bowls.

10 glass bowls that nest inside one another
Given to me by your mother
With a winknudgenod
And a "All of the Cartwright women have these bowls..."
It was a small, silly gesture
That made my eyes wet behind thick rimmed glasses.
Just like it did today, as i opened the cabinet and placed my hand on them

Gently

The way you would palm the side of someones face,
When you were speaking true words that were hard to hear.
When you loved them enough to help them hold up their head.
I sat there holding the side of the thick, cool glass
Imagining other futures.

Birthday signals

How strange is it that today is my Dad's birthday, not hours ago I got
off the phone with him telling him of my wanderlust, and then I lay
down to read my copy of deadeye dick and I find this inscription from
before I was born, when my parents were in love and my dad had
apparently just returned from Saturn. Universe WHAT are you telling me?

Go West.

Of all the roofs we slept under together
And there were many:
(The treehouse in New Brunswick, that crowded Hunter Gatherer Lair,
A leaky, creaky rowhouse on Grace Street, the cement bungalow near the park...)
It was the only one we owned.
And the first time we did not follow our tradition
Sleeping on the floor for the first night, ordering pizza
Living in voluntary poverty for the romance of it - the silent nod that said:
We're doing this together for another year. Cheers.
Our time together measured in years, in houses, objects
In methodically arranged book spines on shelves.
In the year we spent there, not much changed.
Maybe that was where we went wrong.

And so today, we sold it all, to someone who will never know what happened before them.
To them, history begins today
And for us, darling, the book has closed.
I told Lisa I was fine, but when my pen hit the paper the tears flooded my entire body
Overwhelmed me, just for a moment.
I broke down behind closed doors, because of the finality of print, of ink, of final chapters.

Tonight I set my phone alarm for 9:17pm, a number that means something
(Because in my great big pulsing heart, I want everything to mean something,
to point somewhere, to conclude)
And when it rang I glanced through the crowd, when the coast was clear
Lifted my glass just a little, in a crowded room
Made a silent toast to you and to me.
Goodbye, dear love.

Before my jaw popped out, of course.

People say I exaggerate
That I make my stories more fanciful
For flair, for impact, to invoke magic, create metaphor...

And maybe I do.
But not this time.

Saturday night found us on a North Carolina island
And when we danced in the sand
(A giggly, fast-footed jig)
The sand underneath us lit up like the night sky
And the faster we danced, the more it glowed.
Bio-luminescent Zooplankton, he claims.
But I think it might just be proximity to each other, honestly.

The moon was a pirate's moon, golden and wrapped in grey clouds
And the wind was cold enough for matching Zissou hats
And Seu Jorge
But not cold enough to leave before running down the beach like little kids
Trying to find Dolphins and Blue Crabs and Sea Monsters and Tigers.

The non-metaphorical, non-poetic reality is this:
we were honestly running around the beach
In our steve zissou hats
Dancing on star sand and catching ghost crabs.

How to make a painting.

First, get the giggles out. You can't take yourself too seriously. Sometimes the giggles may last for a very long time. Hang in there.

Once you're serious, make sure you have the following things: a mustache, a red silk flower, aprons, and grins.

You may decide to use a pen-name that is very similar to your actual name, this is ok! It helps create mystique.

Enjoy your paintings, Jamie and Dustin.

State Fair!

good morning.

A dead owl on the side of the road.

Owls are omens, wisdom, the ability to see the hidden
And with no turnaround for the next 25 highway miles
He went 50 miles out of his way
To collect feathers, talons

And when he placed the limp, feathered saint
In the bed of his truck
It's mate followed, watching from above
As he shot through the darkness, down the same highway as before
Because there's only one road, really.

And then this morning, there's a feather from that owl
Sitting on the counter of my new apartment
And he says it's for me.

Tomorrow it begins.

All summer long, the sky has been filled
To the brim with water
Downpours threatening, but never arriving
Only a thick, smoky humidity through July and August
The sort of weather that makes you wait.

And then came September, and the sky opened.
Something changed.
The still-fertile ground, soaked
Delaying the browning of grass that comes with fall.
I wander the familiar streets of a city I was ready to leave behind
To run from, really
And my feet, my shoes are always soaked with rain.

And so tomorrow I sign a piece of paper
That says okay, I will stay.
But really, it's a love note
To sandy river shores,
To empty beer bottles, full ashtrays,
A bottle of Applejack tucked in my back pocket
To rooftop singalongs that leave me horse
To floodwalls and mayan ruins
To tiny toy tigers on motorcycles and drive-in movie dates
That leave me grinning into my pillow.

I will pack up my books and my birds, my maps and precious scraps
And start this new life off proper
With a high, hopeful heart
And a red silk flower behind my ear.

The rainstorm that cancelled bowling.

On a night we were trapped
Like sleepy fireflies in a car-shaped jar
On Forest Hill Avenue
As water poured from the sky
As if someone had stabbed a knife in the floor of heaven
And ripped the blade through the tender bottom
Only to discover that heaven wasn't sunlight and warmth
But overwhelming current, quick tide

On that night
We sat in silence, Joe Pug on the radio
And he sang "I've come to test the timbre of my heart,"
And every set of stairs to every apartment building
Was a waterfall
And every set of glasses in the car was fogged, rendered useless

We sat, waiting, and I tied knots in my fingers
Worrying, wishing I wasn't drunk
Wanting to grasp the silver handle and make a run for it
Let the current take me, give me a path or a reason
To do what I would do next

On that night I had less hope than I do now for what lies ahead.

Wedding weekend.

radiant.

green.

perfect.

first dance.


villain.

wow. 3am.

Here I come.

Come morning I am northward bound
Heading straight into the mouth of the past
Upturned corners forming a grin, stretching wide across the Rappahannock River.

In the southern states, Rivers are magnets.
They pull us towards them with strong arms
And there is comfort in the combination of their power and our own buoyancy.

Since before our feet could touch the muddy bottom
We have been told to stay afloat -- and our bodies have learned this lesson well.
At 26, I know my own strength, and know better than to underestimate
The strength of the current.

And so I prepare.
I pack too much underwear, every beauty product I own
I steam my dresses, pulling hard on the hems to erase wrinkles
Pulling hard on the filter of my cigarette to create some.
I pause at my jewelry box, my lucky ruby pendant, and consider the idea
That sentimentality is forgivable, allowed.
So I close the clasp around my neck and sigh, just once.

My stomach agiley flips in both delight for the people in my life whom I travel to celebrate with
And in anticipation of flooded river banks.
I pack my purple cut-offs and giggle to myself, and I say
Out loud in my empty bedroom, to no one in particular:
(Or maybe to Pasco the dog, who always stays near when he knows he's needed)
Here comes the flood.

For the heart

I still wear it, and I still think it's the best good luck charm there
ever was.

It makes me smile.