What was a rock a ways down the beach, a mound of black against a lighter dark, turned out to be a shipwreck- a skeleton of melted-away steel, shaped like a wedge of cheese. Some of us climbed it like little monkeys and sat on top, singing songs. Most of the ship was under the smooth sand but if you walked south you would find a rusted chimney, a metal post. I walked all the way to the edge of the ocean and then turned around and ran back when the ocean changed, my little dog trailing me. When I stopped running she kept on, bolting away across the sand like a fox, zig-zagging and biting at the air. She doesn’t need the light, doesn’t need to see. She has her nose, she has access to much more of the physical universe than I do.

The moon came out and shone on the ocean. It was a crescent moon, laying down parallel with the sea. It was a magic lantern, a cold comfort, the sun through a kaleidoscope. Days before, at the rock shop in Grant’s Pass, we’d looked through homemade kaleidoscopes that were carved out of soft yellow wood and filled with crystals and tiny, painted seashells. Someone does this, I’d said, as we’d pointed the kaleidoscopes at the ceiling lights, watching the light-filled solids undergo mitosis in their ends- Someone makes these for a living.

Clouds blew over the moon, and our silver light was gone. I tried to touch the water again but it ran away from me, teased me, then rushed in to cover my shoes. The sand was wet and littered with shards of clamshells that illuminated themselves, mysteriously, in the dark- I picked one up, thinking it was something else, and held it in my fingers- what was this, this white shell reflecting the clouds reflecting the moon reflecting the sun? The great kaleidoscoping world, the optical illusion of darkness. Even in the blackness of midnight there are holes, fantastical ones the glow like silver dollars or the fireflies of lighthouses. And the white of the whitecaps, that make their own light- the fluidity of the ocean, I thought, could be a metaphor for everything.

I put my fingers in the sand again as the water slipped away from me. Although I knew there was a continental shelf, I could not find the place, before that, where the water most definitely began. The ocean was an animal, an energy that could be nowhere or anywhere. A wind was blowing and my fingers, trailing in the sand, grew cold. I wasn’t sure what my lesson was, from the ocean, for the new year. I told myself that my lesson was that there was no lesson, that the lesson of the ocean was about letting go, that the lesson about everything is about letting go, like prying limpets off of a rock. Which is, if you have ever tried it, impossible. But the point, of course, is not to succeed. The point is to trust the universe, and try anyway, even though you will not succeed. The point is to let the universe hurt you, again and again, like waves bashing against a cliff face, until you are worn down into a softer, less pointed version of yourself, and still you continue to try- to try and let go- and you continue to get hurt- and then, when you can let go of even wanting not to get hurt, when you can open yourself to being hurt like the continental shelf opens itself to the sea, then that’s when you are finally free.

I

Suddenly there were clementines on the tundra, although no-one could say from where they had come. The small round oranges were obscene against the flat bright landscape, the white-dusted ground broken only by the pockmarks of frozen lakes. Nina Simone (That’s what her parents had named her- her parents, who had met in Budapest) carefully divided the mesh sack of oranges, placing three on each of the narrow sleeping platforms. Clementines were not like love, thought Nina. Food was not like love. There would always be enough love.

Her own oranges Nina placed beneath a pile of wool sweaters, as though they were eggs that needed incubating. She imagined that they would hatch into glorious, starburst-colored birds, and she would name them things like Strawberry, Pineapple and Guava. Although one of them, she told herself, would most likely not hatch at all.

Nina hid the empty mesh bag in the bottom of the trash barrel and then sat to wait for the others’ return. It was the longest night of the year and there had been no sun in the day, only a bright moon and no wind, so that the flat land was held, motionless, in the spell of winter. The frosted ground glittered in the moonlight like a hologram, and Nina felt that she was the only thing breathing for a hundred miles. As she waited, watching the rings of rainbow light that circled the moon, she wondered how long, if necessary, she could make the twenty-four clementines last.

II

Even though I had loved her, I always thought she was kind of ugly. We were married on a raft on the Willamette river, surrounded by gilded candelabras, all aflame, and the sleeping shit-stained ducks that nested beneath the blackberry brambles on its banks. The sky was clear but we could not see the stars- had been able to see them earlier, before the light pollution of the city- that was before we’d decided on the wedding, when she was giving me head on our unmade bed, a foam mat piled with quilts that smelled of air, human warmth, and the trace of dryer sheets from the people who’d owned them before.

We’d lit the candles and placed them in my dead grandfather’s candelabras as our raft neared the fourteen bridges of the city. The lights had made small circles of yellow in the milky dark, had attracted insects- the wax had dripped onto the worn wood of the floor. She’d opened the food chest and there as only chopped liver floating in a little ice- after we’d said our vows we tossed the liver, bit by bit, into the Willamette, as an offering to our wedding guests.

Afterwards we lay on our backs on the raft and felt the water rock just a little beneath us, and we planned our life together- she was leaving for Tel Aviv on the solstice, and after that we would never see each other again. It made sense, then, that we would want to have a child, but we weren’t sure how to acquire one. You couldn’t just go to the pound and get one for fifty dollars, like a pit-bull, and you needed a house with walls, so the kid had someplace safe to sleep.

As we floated towards the Columbia the stars began to wink on again and I thought, briefly, of going to sea, and making my life on the ocean.

The animal hides on the bed never get made- there are blankets over the windows. In the kitchen, eight different kinds of hot sauce. The flash from the police officer’s camera is overly intimate and, in retrospect, beautiful- the crumbling dirt floor of the basement, the toe of his boot cap, shining and black, in the corner of the photograph.

There is a stack of books on the wooden coffee table. Yellow paperbacks, zines, Derrick Jensen. More zines hang on a piece of string on the wall- No Gods No Mattresses, Sexuality as State Form, the Cloak and Dagger Compendium.

The locks have been changed. A white bowl holds paper clips, locking picking tools, an old lock. There is a cluster of glass prayer candles, a purple glass candy dish, a folded pair of reading glasses. A single beer can.

The rug came from the dumpster, one of those big long ones that look like a freight car, that sit outside of peoples’ houses when they’re doing renovations. It has some sort of Chinese symbols on it and it covers the whole floor. It covers the rotted spots, the stained plywood. It helps hold in the little bit of heat that comes from the gas camp stove in the kitchen.

In the kitchen, the necessities- honey, tea, instant coffee. A loaf of dumpstered crusty bread, half-eaten. A cutting board- lettuce, mustard, hummus. The photographer collects weapons that he finds and arranges them on the small, hexagonal tiles of the kitchen counter- a multitool, a paring knife, a machete. The house had been abandoned for three years, and the machete was for the blackberries barring the garage door- grown into a cyclone fence. The paring knife, of course, is for acts of unspeakable violence.

Someone at one point drank a forty of old English, and this has not escaped notice. It was shared, actually, on the couch, in the dark, with the animal skins pulled over them. The prayer candles flickered softly- Holy Mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners. Someone else sat in the rocking chair with the guitar on his lap, absorbed in the tips of his fingers.

Someone was young once, and thought that they could change the world. After their belongings were fully catalogued, they were arrested.

(Source)

Another nice story for you. Fiction. Now without the angry rant.

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—————————The Tree————————————————————

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Madeline finds the tree on a Wednesday. She is walking. The tree, its trunk massive, its bark like elephant skin, is on Gantenbien and Shaver. The tree is behind a small board fence, and its limbs extend out over the street. It is the largest tree, says Madeline, between MLK and the river.

It is the very end of wintertime, the wet season, and rain falls every day. Madeline walks everywhere. She has hurt her wrist, and so she cannot ride her bicycle. She also cannot play her violin. The violin, expensive and beautiful, sits in its case, and exudes the lonely smell of rosin.

Without her violin or her bicycle, Madeline feels that she lacks a sense of purpose. Sadness gathers around her like spiderwebs. But sadness is beautiful, and so is walking, and walking is what brought her to the tree.

One afternoon, Madeline is passing beneath the tree when buckets of water begin to fall from the dark, clouded sky. Madeline stands, clutching her wool coat, and watches the water fall. The circle of sidewalk and grass beneath the tree is dry, and after five minutes the clouds are exhausted, and they roll rapidly away, and the sun comes out, and Madeline is able to continue on her way.

Sometimes, on her walks, Madeline stops in front of the tree, and talks to it. She puts her small hands on the board fence and leans over into the patch of dirt in which the tree sits and she tells the tree that she is sure that one day, she and the tree will be together. Behind the tree is a house. In the house live people who Madeline does not know. On the porch is a chair, and a big window, behind which Madeline can see a dog. The mail comes to the house at four in the afternoon. Once, through the big window, Madeline saw a woman bent over the kitchen sink, rinsing spaghetti in a colander. Another day, while Madeline stood on the sidewalk, beneath the shadow of the tree, she saw an old woman step from a Volvo and walk slowly up the to the board fence, holding her sweater closed against her chest. That was Sunday, the day that the people of the neighborhood keep irregular hours, have cookouts, and congregate. Madeline feels loneliest on Sunday, and her life, on that day, seems to have the least purpose. After seeing the old woman, Madeline walked on, and after a few moments she passed the big open doors of the catholic church. Through the church doors she could smell incense and dim, dusty air. An ornate, windowless cathedral obscures the baldness of everyday life, thought Madeline, as continued to walk.

Today is Tuesday, a cloudy day, and Madeline stands beneath the tree. It is a workday, and the house is silent, save for the dog, who whines at the window. Madeline leans against the fence and waits until the mail carrier drops the letters into the metal receptacle beside the front door. He does not see her, standing there, and she watches him go, his calves muscular beneath his blue canvas shorts. Mail carriers, she thinks, have more of a sense of purpose than almost anyone. Gently, Madeline lifts the latch on the small board fence, and crosses the dirt yard, and steals up the front steps of the house. She reaches her small hand into the mailbox and extracts a blue envelope. She puts it into the pocket of her wool coat. Back in the dirt yard, she presses her hand against the tree. Then she walks home.

The blue envelope contains a dentist’s bill for three composite fillings. There is a two hundred dollar deductible, thirty dollars is the remainder.

Madeline is standing in her small room, and she turns the bill over in her hands. Her heavy velvet curtains are drawn over the windows. Her violin case sits, neglected, next to her stack of library books. Each day, when she would be playing her violin, she reads a library book instead. She also reads the books at night, when she cannot sleep.

Madeline looks at the bill for clues. It is a single piece of paper, folded three times, addressed to a man. It was printed on a computer, although someone has circled the outstanding balance with a red pen. Who? Did the dentist do this? Or his secretary? Madeline folds the bill, and returns it to its envelope.

At five o’clock the next afternoon, Madeline again mounts the steps of the house on whose property her tree lives. This time, Madeline rings the doorbell, pressing her finger firmly against the round brass button. The dog, inside, hears her movements, and begins to bark. The floorboards rattle and then the door opens, and a woman stands in the doorway. The woman is wearing loose athletic pants and her brown hair is pulled back from her face. She carries a pomegranate, broken open, and the fingers of her hand are stained red.

“Hello.” Says Madeline, before the woman can speak. “I got a piece of your mail by accident. I live a little west of here.” Madeline holds the blue envelope out in front of her.

The woman shakes her head.

“We’re in between routes, so there’s no regular mail carrier on this route. I’m sorry.”

“I opened it by accident,” says Madeline, “before I looked at the address.”

The woman takes the envelope in the hand that is not holding the pomegranate, and glances at its front.

“That’s alright.” she says. “It’s just a bill.”

The dog, who has been pushing against the woman’s leg, gets loose and stands on the porch beneath Madeline, trembling. Madeline puts her small hand on the dog’s wide, flat back.

“What’s your dog’s name?” She asks.

“Rupert.” Says the woman, frowning.

“Oh!” Says Madeline, her fingers stroking the dog’s fur. “I used to have a dog just like this! When I was a kid. Or my grandpa did, rather.” She runs her hand under the dog’s collar, and scratches him there. The dog closes his eyes, although his body continues to wriggle.

“Really?” Says the woman. “He’s a mastiff shepherd pit-bull mix. My mother got him at the pound. Rupert!” She admonishes the dog. “Rupert go inside!” The dog ceases to wriggle and looks up at Madeline with wet, dark-brown eyes.

“He’s a handful.” Says the woman. “I’ve been taking care of him since my mother’s been sick, and he won’t do anything that I say. Rupert!” She barks at the dog. “Rupert!”

Madeline sighs.

“I just can’t believe how much he looks like the dog my grandfather had when I was a kid.” She looks up at the woman. “Say, you wouldn’t need a dog walker, would you? I’ve got a lot of time on my hands right now. And I live right down the street.”

The woman scrunches up her face, and looks out at the street.

“You wouldn’t have to pay me.” Madeline puts both her hands on the dog. “I could come by tomorrow, even, in the afternoon.”

The woman looks at Madeline.

“He pulls.” She says. “He’s not used to being walked.”

“That’s alright.” Says Madeline. “My grandpa’s dog used to pull too. I’m used to dogs that pull.”

The woman sighs.

“That sure would help me out. Tell you what. I’ll put him in the yard, and I’ll leave the leash draped over the gate. It would be amazing if you could walk him.” She sighs again, and the lines around her mouth relax. “I work at the hospital, and I’m not always around to give him exercise. He gets pent up in the house, and eats my magazines. And he pees on the kitchen floor.”

“That’s awful.” Says Madeline. The corners of the woman’s mouth get tight again, and she looks as if she might cry.

The dog moves closer to Madeline.

“My name’s Madeline.” She says.

“Bethany.” Says the woman. The woman drops the envelope on a table by the door and they shake hands, the woman’s limp, cool hand in Madeline’s small warm one.

“That sure would be a help.” Says Bethany again. She looks at the hand that holds the pomegranate, at the fingers where the juice has dried.

“I better get going.” Says Madeline. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Alright.” Says the woman, and nods. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” She steps inside, and the dog follows her. She closes the door.

On Wednesday Madeline eats a lunch of goat cheese, corn tortillas, and cold coffee, and then she walks to Gantenbein and Shaver. The day is clear and cool, and the tree shakes its small serrated leaves at her, making a rattling like castanets. It is springtime. Madeline unlatches the gate and steps into the small dirt yard. The dog is there, lying in the sun, and it lifts its head to look at her, unalarmed. Madeline walks up to the tree and stretches her arms wide, leaning her full weight against its bark. The bark is smooth and convoluted, and smells faintly of vanilla. Madeline leans her cheek against the tree, and breathes its smell. In front of her face is a dark, dusty crevice, and Madeline runs her fingers along its edges, thinking of the tiny creatures that make their homes there.

They make their homes there, in the furrows of the bark, and it is world enough for them.

There is dappled light beneath the tree, and Madeline lays down in it. She watches the spring sky through the way high-up boughs of the tree. The dog gets up, crosses the dirt yard, and collapses next to Madeline. She can feel the very tips of his hairs where they brush the arm of her sweater. She reaches over, and puts one hand on the dog. She can feel his ribs rising, and beneath that, the gentle pounding of his heart. The yard is quiet, and down the street, a wind chime tinkles. A single cloud sets out across the sky, and Madeline watches it wend its way among the tree leaves.

They make their homes there, in the furrows of the bark, and it is world enough for them.

Madeline wakes on her side, her shoulder wedged painfully in the dirt. Her arm is around the dog, who is facing away, asleep. Warmth comes from his fur and Madeline thinks, momentarily, of a bear.

She stands, and brushes off her clothing. She does not know what time it is, but the afternoon has clouded over, and the air feels like rain. Madeline lifts the leash from the fence, and moves it to the porch. Then she latches the gate behind her, and walks home.

For the next week, Madeline is abruptly busy, and she does not have time for her usual walks. Her mother is in town, unexpectedly, with the man she is dating, and Madeline accompanies them to the Japanese gardens, the bookstore, and the rose festival. She has dinner with them on the rooftop of a restaurant on Burnside, and she drinks enough wine to insure that she does not have to fake enthusiasm over the cool steamed mussels and dry, salty bread. Madeline’s mother talks enough for ten people, and requires nothing from Madeline but the audience. Madeline’s mother works for an insurance company, and has a cat named Ginger who she does not, as far as Madeline can tell, love. Madeline’s mother has a bad foot which requires constant salt baths and the vibrations of small electrical appliances ordered from Parade magazine. Madeline’s mother’s boyfriend repairs tractors, builds birdhouses from small scraps of wood, and speaks only in the literal. They live, together, in a manufactured home in eastern Washington.

By the time Madeline rounds the corner of Shaver onto Gantenbein and sees the tree’s great bulk before her, like a ship in the air, nearly eight days have passed. It is mid-morning, and the house is silent. Madeline stands, looking at the tree’s grey trunk, and then she sees the leash, draped neatly over the gate. The dog, too, is there, resting in the yard. It stands when it sees Madeline, and small sticks and bits of debris hang from its shaggy coat.

Madeline circles the tree, tracing her fingers along its girth. The lowest limb is a good few feet above her head, and she fetches the wooden chair from the porch, and sets it against the base of the tree. Standing on the chair, she can just wrap her hands around the tree’s lowest limb. Tensing her muscles, she swings her legs up against the tree and then walks them up over the limb. For a moment she hangs, feeling the wrinkles in the tree’s cool bark where they bite into her skin. Then she swings up, and into the tree.

Once she is in the tree, the leaves close around her, and she is invisible. Madeline looks below her, at the wooden chair, and at the dog’s upturned face. She looks above her, at the tree’s great, kaleidoscoping mass, and around her, at all the other limbs within reach. She finds a groove in the bark in which she is able to fit the tip of her canvas slipper, and a knot which fits, almost perfectly, in the palm of her hand, and she lifts herself up.

]]> http://carrotquinn.wordpress.com/2011/12/04/the-tree/feed/ 0 carrot quinn http://carrotquinn.wordpress.com/2011/12/01/ruby/ http://carrotquinn.wordpress.com/2011/12/01/ruby/#comments Fri, 02 Dec 2011 03:09:18 +0000 carrot quinn http://carrotquinn.wordpress.com/?p=1384 Continue reading →]]> Dear readers!

This is a fiction piece that I’ve been working on for a while. It’s actually a true story (the part about the bar, anyway) but it didn’t happen to me. Since it’s fiction (as opposed to fictionalized memoir) it’s been a lot harder to write than the other stuff I write, and I need your feedback!

Will you tell me in the comments section what parts you think need improving? I’m specifically looking for feedback on parts you think are boring/parts that are hard to believe/characters that are hard to believe/confusing sections/whole chunks that you think I could cut out.

No feedback on grammar or sentence structure, please.

THANK YOU A HUGE INFINITE AMOUNT FOR READING!

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——————————————–R U B Y————————————————————-

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The day that Jules’ dog died, he drove his truck down to the Oconee river and parked it in the poplar trees along to the bank. It was springtime, and the grass was dotted with white daises and small yellow flowers whose names he did not know. The vet had given Jules a small plastic box of ashes and he held it in his rough hand as he squatted on his heels next to the water, looking at the way the current moved over the soft grey mud. His dog had hated the cold, had hated the water. He’d had thin, short hair and a bony, whippet-like carriage, and he’d spent most of his life shivering.

Jules drove to the bar on county road 15 and parked his truck in the lot. He fixed his hair in the rear-view mirror and patted his front pockets before stepping out and slamming the door of the truck.

The bar was warm and filled with smoke. A few people sat smoking at tables against the wood-paneled walls. Jules sat at a booth and set his cigarettes on the table, and then the plastic box of ashes. He got a beer from the bar, and set that on the table too. He looked out at the dance floor, a square of linoleum in the corner. A woman stood alone there, her arms down at her sides. She wore a white ruffled blouse that fell off one shoulder. Her eyes were closed and she was swaying. She had lipstick on.

Jules drank his beer, and got a second. He held the heavy bottle in his hands. He ran his finger through the wet ring his beer left on the wood of the table. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and a little sharpener. He sharpened the pencil on the table, watching the little wood curls pile up.

The woman in the ruffled blouse stood next to his booth. She had bottle-red hair and her hands were curled. Jules brushed his shavings away.

“Are you gonna dance,” said the woman, “or WHAT.”

Jules followed the woman to the linoleum. He put a hand on her waist. Her skin was soft beneath the fabric of her blouse. The mirror along the wall showed him their heads together, his tousled brown hair and her lipstick. Then her head was on his shoulder. She smelled like cigarettes and car-fresheners. He moved slowly on the dance floor, back and forth. She was taller than he was, and he held her there, as though she had fallen asleep.

The song on the jukebox changed, and the woman lifted her head and laughed. “You know,” she said, “my husband would HATE you. You are just SO CUTE.” The woman pushed Jules away. “I need another DRINK.” She walked to the bar, her hips moving in her high-waisted jeans. Jules took his beer from the booth, and swallowed what was left of it.

In the men’s room he shut himself into a booth. The walls of the booth were painted black, and marked up. He dropped his wranglers and peed. A few men came in and stood outside the booth. He could see the laces of their boots, and the bottoms of their jeans. Jules left the booth and passed in front of the men, to the sink. The men followed him out of the restroom.

“Hey what’s your name?” said one of the men, as they walked the darkened hallway back to the bar.

“Jules,” he said.

The man laughed. Then he slapped his hands against the legs of his work jeans.

“Hey where’s your tits, Jules? I mean where’s your jewels, tits?” Said the other. The narrow hallway echoed with their laughter. Jules’ hands trembled, and then he turned the corner and was back in the noise and clamor of the bar. Jules looked for the woman, but she was talking with another man. Jules sat down at his booth and clutched his beer, and when he finally looked up, the men were gone.

Jules went through the heavy door into the rush of outside air, and stood against the wall of the building. There was a little rain falling, and he watched the water bead on the wet cars in the lot. He took out his pack of cigarettes and pulled one free. His hands shook, and he had a hard time with the lighter. Jules sucked on his cigarette, and closed his eyes.

For a moment Jules had no thoughts, and then the smell of the rain reminded him of springtime two years ago, when he’d first gotten his dog. He’d lived on a piece of land near the highway and the earth there had been black-brown and wet. Little green things grew everywhere. He’d named the dog Ruby, even though he was a boy. He’d told his dad about the dog and his dad said, What kind of a name is that for a boy. Ruby had come from the pound in West Virginia where there had been a whole litter of Rubies, all crowded together in a cell. Jules had put his fingers around the metal bars and his Ruby had looked up at him with weepy brown eyes, his narrow tail trembling in the damp air. Jules paid the woman at the front desk fifty dollars and she put the half-grown puppy in his arms. The dog had smelled like corn chips and piss and when the woman wasn’t looking Jules had picked up one of Ruby’s big, loose ears and rubbed it against his cheek.

Hinges popped as a couple stepped out of their truck and slammed the doors. They crossed the lot towards Jules. The man was wearing a canvas jacket and work jeans and he wrenched open the door of the bar, giving Jules some sort of look he couldn’t figure out. Jules smiled at the woman and she smiled back awkwardly, touching her pockets as if she had forgotten something.

Jules finished his cigarette and followed the couple inside. Inside the bar he looked around for the men from the bathroom, but they had gone. Jules went to the bar and ordered another beer. The bartender took the top off the beer and put it on the dark wood of the bar without looking at Jules. Jules arranged his plastic box and cigarettes on the bar and sat on a stool and watched the smoke gather in the room. The jukebox sang at him, the too-loud music bouncing strangely off the dark wood walls. Down the bar an old man sat smoking. His face was craggy like the desert and he blew cigarette smoke out through his ruddy lips, filling up the air around him.

Jules turned the plastic box in his hands, feeling its contents shift. He tapped his foot on the barstool.

“Hey,” he said to the man. “can I bum a cigarette?”

The man at the bar turned. His eyebrows were white and fluted at the edges. The irises of his eyes were dark as stones, and they watered as he looked through the smoke at Jules.

“Cigarette.” he said.

“Can I bum a cigarette.” said Jules, again. He patted the chest pocket of his shirt to show that it was empty. The man pulled a cigarette from his pack with two curled fingers, and tossed it down the bar to Jules.

“You new here.” he said, and then he coughed into his hand. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket and roughly wiped his mouth.

“It’s not my usual bar.” said Jules.

The man folded his handkerchief slowly. “I been coming here fifteen years. I seen a lot of new people come through.

“Yeah?” said Jules.

“Back when the mines were good, a lot of people came through this bar. You work in the mines?”

“No.” said Jules. He took a drink of his beer and then wiped his damp palm on the legs of his jeans.

“Those mines are hard places,” said the man. “I worked there ten years, and I’m lucky I’ve still got my lungs.”

“My dog died,” said Jules.

“Pardon?” said the man. Jules picked up the little box, and shook it.

“My dog died. He’s in here. I wanted to throw him in the river but I couldn’t.”

The man nodded.

“That’s good.” he said. “River’s no place for a dog.” He looked down the bar and then back at Jules, his bristled eyebrows drawn together. “You know what happens to the souls of dogs?”

“No.” said Jules. “What happens.”

The man squinted through the smoke at Jules. “When you own a dog and then it dies, its soul becomes part of your own.” The man coughed, and smushed the handkerchief against his mouth. Then he continued, his voice rough like his mouth was filled with gravel. “However happy or sad or fearful or mistreated that dog was, that becomes a little piece of you.” The man rubbed his chest with his fist and then leaned towards Jules, lowering his voice so that Jules had to lean a little, too. “Animals are a part of us.” Jules could smell the man’s breath, vodka and  cigarettes and syrupy flat Pepsi. “Animals are a part of us,” The man said again. “The river’s part of us too. Even the mines are part of us.” The man coughed, slow and deep, and the loose skin of his throat trembled with the effort. Jules turned away, and pressed his hands into fists under the bar. The room was more crowded now, and a few people danced on the dance floor, their bodies moving slowly.

“Hey.” Jules reached his arm down the bar and touched the edge of the man’s ashtray. “Hey thanks for that. The stuff about the animals.” The man coughed and nodded stiffly, and rattled the ice in his empty glass.

Jules got up from the barstool and straightened his shirt where it tucked into his wranglers. He walked across the room to where the woman with the lipstick sat, on the other side of the dance floor, at a table with some men. The jukebox had paused between songs and he could hear the knock of his boots as the heels hit the floor. Jules was almost to the woman’s table when he heard a voice call out. He turned and saw a booth of people that had turned to look at him. A women at the end of the booth was waving her hand in his direction, the red-painted nails shining like small, bright flags.

“Hey,” she shouted. “Hey come here.”

Jules looked across the dance floor, and then back at the woman with the nails . She beckoned him again. Jules clutched his beer bottle, feeling the heavy dampness of the glass, and walked back across the room.

The woman who had beckoned him had limp brown hair and broad shoulders, and her red fingernails were wrapped around her drink glass. The man who sat next to her had a tangled yellow beard on his face, and there was another woman, her pregnant belly tight beneath a camouflage t-shirt, her hair a mess of grown-out blonde. The table was clustered with empty bottles and another man stood against the wall with his leg cocked, his dark eyes looking out at Jules.

“We just wanna know.” said the woman with the red painted nails. “We just wanna know,” she said again, shouting a little to be heard above the music, “if you’re a boy or a girl.”

Jules laughed, and leaned his arm against the leather of the booth.

“Now y’all can’t all have my number, now,” he said. There was a pause, and Jules felt the cold glass of his beer bottle where he gripped it in his hand.

“No, really.” said the woman with the red-painted nails. Her eyes were heavy and she leaned over at him, her hair greasy where it touched her face. “It’s a simple question. Are you a boy, or are you a girl?”

Jules laughed again, and tipped his head. The air in the bar felt thick, like steam.

“I mean, come on-” said Jules. “does it really matter? I mean, you respect me, and I’ll respect you.” The group stared at him, their faces blank. A sour taste had crept into Jules’ mouth. He lifted the bottle to his face, but it was empty.

“Just tell us,” said the woman who was pregnant. Her voice was deep, and it crept below the smoke of the crowded bar, enveloping Jules like an anaconda. “Are you a boy, or are you a girl?”

“I’m bisexual.” Said Jules. “Ok?” He set his beer bottle on the table with a clank. The pregnant woman laughed. The man at the end of the booth stepped forward, his dark eyes focused on Jules.

“You better tell us what you are,” said the man, “or I’ll just have to find out for myself.” The man reached his hand, slow-like, for the crotch of Jules’ denim jeans.

Time turned to molasses, and then stopped. Jules watched the man’s hand, frozen in mid-reach, and he tried to take a breath, but there wasn’t any air. Jules’ lungs turned to helium, and he felt himself leave the bar. Jules was flying over the middle part of the country, Jules was falling off the edge of the continent. Jules was a ship, way out at sea. Jules’ heart was the waves that pounded the hull of the ship. Jules was alone.

Jules was in the bar, the wooden floor hard like a springboard beneath his boots. Loretta Lynn was playing on the jukebox. Jules raised his arms up and squared his legs. Jules shoved the man as hard as he could, right in the chest of his pearl-button shirt.

“You fucking touch me,” said Jules, his voice cracking, “and I’ll fucking punch you in your fucking face.”

The man hit the wall behind him, thud, and then he sat down at the end of the booth. The people looked up at him, astonished, and set down their drinks. Jules turned and walked across the floor, his arms shaking at his sides. He felt a hand on his waist and he spun around, but it was only the woman with the lipstick and the ruffled blouse, her green eyes heavy, her smell like pine and a hundred wilted flower gardens.

“Dance with me again, handsome,” she said, her words slurred like oatmeal. She took Jules’ hand and he followed her onto the linoleum. Randy Travis was playing on the jukebox, and the woman wrapped her arms around him, leaning her soft hair against the side of his face. Jules closed his eyes. He’d lost track of the time, and Ruby, his dog, would be waiting in the truck. But no. Ruby was dead. Jules looked back towards his barstool, where the little box of ashes sat. The woman was singing softly into his shoulder, and then, with thick, hoarse sobs, Jules began to cry.

The woman squeezed him tighter, didn’t try to stop his crying. She held him on the dance floor. “I know.” she said. “I know.”

It was march, and Seamus and I had just started dating. The rain clouds, while still black-grey and flinging down torrents of water, were broken, now, in moments, by patches of glorious, syrupy yellow light- the steamy northwest sun, emerging naked from its long, introspective sauna.

Seamus and I decided to go to Olympia for the weekend, with our dogs. In Olympia, two hours north and much closer to the ocean, the grass was greener and more feral, the dandelions more yellow, the sunlight more syrupy. We found the people of Olympia blinking against this new spring light, moving snail-like through the still-cool hours, and shaking mildew from their clothing. Seamus and I, overjoyed at being out of the city and so close to the large, damp forest, set up our tent in Otis’ backyard and then went to a potluck, where there were chocolate truffles made from nettles and everyone’s dogs played nicely in the grass overlooking some water that was, somehow, part of the ocean, and in which groups of people rowed small, narrow boats in unison. After the potluck we loaded the dogs into the truck- Kinnikinnick, bloated from drinking her weight in dishwater, and Emy, the calmer and more reasonable of the two- and set out to find Seamus his afternoon cup of very strong coffee.

I do not know Olympia very well, but it was on some unremarkable corner, with a small, economically depressed-looking strip-mall and maybe a law firm that was inside of an old house, that we found the dog. The dog was running down the sidewalk, and it was Seamus who spotted him first. Seamus pulled the truck next to the curb.

Get that dog, he said to me.

The dog was trotting down the sidewalk in a general sort of non-direction, somewhat frantically, but losing steam. I jumped out of the truck and walked behind him, briskly but not too fast, as if I was just walking somewhere random, as if the dog and I were just fellow pedestrians, thrown together by chance, on our joint journey towards the crosswalk of a very busy intersection. The dog continued to trot and at the corner he turned left. I followed, continuing to look straight ahead, as if his affairs were no business of mine and it was just coincidence that I, in fact, happened to be going left as well. The dog walked for half a block, slowed, and stopped. This sidewalk square, he seemed to be saying, was as good as any. I stopped next to him and picked him up. He weighed practically nothing. He was the smallest dog I had ever seen.

Back in the truck, Seamus and I had no idea what to do. It was thrilling to find a stray dog (that was in imminent danger!) but what to do next? Call the humane society? Animal control? Drive around and look for the owner? (This we did, half-heartedly, for about five minutes.) Should we put up fliers? One thing was for certain- the dog had no tags, and he looked hungry.

Let’s get him some food, I said. And a leash. I laid the dog on the front seat of the truck, between me and Seamus. A sunbeam fell on him from the open window, and his massive, marble-like brown eyes glinted wetly. He began to lick my forearm with his small, pink tongue.

HE’S SO CUTE! Said Seamus. Kinnikinnick clung, gecko-like, to the top of the front seat, and eyed the new dog suspiciously. Emy slept in the back, unalarmed. I touched the dog’s fur, looked at his small white teeth. The truth was, he wasn’t cute. Kinnikinnick was cute- small and brown and alert. Emy was cute- with her half-moon ears and good-smelling fur. This dog, however, was something else entirely- if there was a word to describe this dog, it did not exist in English.

Seamus and I had no idea what kind of dog it was.

Maybe it’s a long-haired chihuahua? The dog’s face looked kind of like Kinnikinnick’s- only more bulbous, and they were both small. But that’s where the similarities ended.

While Kinnikinnick was brown and sleek, like a little fox, there was no animal I could compare this dog to. This dog was white with patches of different colors, like a calico cat, and huge tufts of fur stuck out from his ears. His tail was long, plumed, and magnificent, and it curled, rooster-like, up over his back. I had never seen such a fancy dog. This dog was ridiculously overdone, like a like wedding cake or a catholic cathedral. Ridiculously overdone and then shrunk down really, really small. This dog was not just “cute”, this dog was a fucking Japanese animation. I ran my hands over the dog’s small body. His hair was long in some places, short in others, and on his underside it was matted with urine and what was probably poop. And beneath his fancy plumage you could feel his tiny, emaciated body, like the body of a bird. And he still had his balls- like huge brown chestnuts, lined up parallel between his back legs, as if there was no other way that they would fit on his body.
We bought a leash and a small can of dog food, and took the dog to Mae’s house.

We found this dog, we said to Mae.

No way, said Mae.

We put the dog on the floor with the food, and the dog began to eat. Not eat but snorfle, as if his face was a vacuum. Mae stood watching us, stirring almond milk into a bowl of oatmeal. Good light came through the windows and fell upon the tangles of tree branches that had been tacked in the corners. We offered the dog a small glass dish of water, and he consumed that as well.

Why is this dog so hungry? I asked.

Why is this dog so thirsty?

This dog is obviously neglected.

Feel his ribs, we said to Mae. She dutifully poked his matted fur, felt his tiny, prominent hip bones.

See his urine-covered belly, we said to Mae. She dutifully observed his stinky, tangled underside.

I Think We Should Keep This Dog, I said.

No way, said Mae. She was still eating her bowl of oatmeal.

Seamus’ eyes were glazed over in excitement.

Let’s keep the dog, said Seamus.

I took a picture of Seamus holding the dog, on the grass in front of Mae’s house.

Naomi, our friend in Portland, is a hairdresser and a fancy lady, and had been (somewhat quietly) wanting a little dog for some time, although her housemates were, at least at the moment, against it. Seamus and I had just found the best looking, most fantastical little dog ever.

I felt that this was Naomi’s dog.

I felt that Naomi’s dog had fallen from the sky. Naomi’s dog had escaped from a neglectful situation and run free, on the streets of Olympia, so that we could find it, and bring it to Naomi.

I sent Naomi the picture of Seamus with the dog.

Do you want this dog? It said.

Do you want this dog?

Seamus and I took the dog back to Otis’ house, and put him in the tent in the backyard. We hadn’t found any coffee so we climbed in as well, onto the airbed, and curled beneath the blankets for a nap. Good Olympia air moved through the mesh walls of the tent, bringing with it the smell of cedar trees, and far off was the sound of windchimes. It was cold out, still spring, but the three of us made a pocket of warmth, and I felt immensely contented.

When we woke, we couldn’t find the dog. He wasn’t between any of the blankets, or at the foot of the bed. Finally we found him, wedged beneath the airbed and the wall of the tent, in a little nest of blanket-corners. I lifted him up by his little bird-body and he blinked at me, his brown eyes watering endearingly. So easy, I thought, to lose such a little dog. He’s so tiny, you can lose him in a tent! Such a little scrap of fur, such a tiny spark of life!

What fire, I thought, as I looked into his too-big eyeballs, burns inside your tiny ribcage? What magical machinations make your existence possible? How small, your little organs?!

Back in Portland, I introduced the dog to my apartment. He immediately urinated everywhere, confirming my suspicions that he was not housetrained and had, in fact, been kept (so cruel!) in someone’s backyard. Kinnikinnick, while initially friendly, became much more guarded when she learned that all the new dog wanted to do was hump. His balls, still fastened so firmly to his undercarriage, were likely larger than his brain, and once hydrated and fed, it became apparent that he was driven by them to the exclusion of almost everything else. And Kinnikinnick, this fancy, rooster-like dog was certain, was destined to be his wife. But she, having been fixed, was firmly against this idea, and so they engaged in the elaborate small-dog acrobatics of the wrestle/hump deflection/snarly face/gremlin noises, much to the delight and entertainment of anyone who stopped by.

Naomi did some research.

“He’s a papillon,” she said.

I read the wikipedia page about papillons.

“They’re from the 13th century!” I said. “In France! Mary Antoinette had one! She clutched it as she walked to the guillotine!!”

Naomi took the dog to the vet, and had him weighed. Four pounds exactly. He wasn’t just a papillon, he was a teacup papillon. He was, said the vet, a year and a half old. The vet cut off his balls. Naomi took the dog to the groomer’s, and they trimmed his matted fur. She fed the dog as much as he could eat, and he began to fill out, an ounce at a time. She named him Sonny.

As Sonny settled into Naomi’s house, with its collection of humans, its comings and goings, and its one other dog, his personality began to unfold. And, at least for the time being, he was a bit of a monster. Unhousetrained, he would poop in corners, the basement, the hallway. He would not come when called, would not respond to any sounds at all- so much so that for a time, Naomi worried that he was deaf. On a typical afternoon you would enter the living room to find him crouched, lion-like, above his rawhide bone, eyes blazing defiantly, a tiny, chain-saw like growl percolating from his insides. He would snarl and snap at the feet of strangers, and hop away like a ping-pong ball when you bent down to pick him up. He didn’t like to be held, and would wriggle like a fish in your hands when you finally caught him. He was like an optical illusion- so tiny, fluffy and kitten-like, so seemingly loveable- but on the inside, he was a maniacal sociopath- seemingly incapable of bonding with anyone.

But Naomi had patience.

Naomi didn’t have a car. Luckily, Sonny was portable. Naomi got a cute bag for him and stuffed him down into it, and carried him everywhere on her bicycle. Since he looked more like a toy than a real animal, she was able to sneak him into coffee shops, restaurants and shows. At night, in an attempt to make him cuddle, she stuffed him under the covers, but he popped out like a helium balloon and bounced to the foot of the bed where he curled up, just out of reach.

Still, Naomi had patience.

Boundaries were put into place for Sonny- no growling, no snapping, no attacking other dogs and humans. When he was being aggressive he could be flipped, using one hand, onto his tiny back, and held in place until he relaxed. He could also be picked up, at the scruff of his neck, much like the kitten that he was, and spoken to in a very authoritative voice- at which point the fight would lift off of him like mist, and his wet brown eyes would grow wet, and he might even- if you were lucky- lick your nose.

As the months went by, Sonny began, imperceptibly at first, to soften. He followed Naomi around like a wee shadow, and when she came home from work he would lift his front legs off the ground and clap his paws together like a tiny, animated toy. He would sometimes, now, allow others to pick him up, and he would even, on occasion, display something that was similar to affection. To reach this soft place in Sonny, however, to get him to do something like recline, casual-like, on your lap, as if that was no big deal, it was often necessary to wear him out physically first- and this was a challenge, as the fire that burned within him, in spite of his small size, was monstrously large.

In July I went backpacking with Kinnikinnick, Sonny, and Naomi’s partner, Finn. We picked a trail with lots of lakes, and there were such insane mosquitoes that we were forced to run, every second that we were out of the tent, to avoid being suffocated. (Exaggeration.) We didn’t want to run with our big backpacks on, so instead of carrying the packs for three days we hiked in four miles, pitched our tent, and the next day set out to jog the remainder of the trail. As long as we were running, the mosquitoes couldn’t get us, and as long as we wanted to be out of the tent, we had to be running. The night before, Sonny had been so hyper in the tent that Finn had barely been able to sleep- Sonny had thought that he was Outside, and that had made him feel Excited, and he had decided that he didn’t need to sleep, that he needed only to bounce like a flea back and forth across our sleeping bags, pawing excitedly at the nylon of the tent.

The next day we set out bright and early on our Epic Trail Run, hyper, sleepless dogs in tow. And it turned out that the trail, which passed by so many small lakes, was flooded in places, and in other places it was covered in patches of snow or blocked by fallen trees. The dogs, though, were not perturbed, and they vaulted over the puddles and slid over the snow patches like fearless, inexhaustible insects. The only humans we saw that day, on our long overland journey, were a pair of mysterious forest rangers, who would appear on the trail and then disappear, back into the foliage, as if by magic. We jogged sort of stumblingly through the forest from mid-morning to bedtime, our improvised backpacks bouncing against our shoulders, food and a water filter inside. We stopped at lakes to swim and eat chocolate and salmon jerky, and then we ran some more. Kinnikinnick and Sonny followed tirelessly along behind us, now and again darting ahead, ears up, to see what might be coming. Kinnikinnick, being the larger of the two, was able to leap, fox-like, over the fallen logs, but Sonny was too short and needed to be lifted, and he would wait, patiently, his eyes squinted softly in the forest light, for Finn to act as his hydraulic lift.

friendz

We returned to our campsite late in the evening, lowered our sore bodies into the flooded, broth-colored stream, and then put on every item of clothing we had brought so that we could crouch, for a few moments, in the thick, mosquito-filled air, and stir the gluten-free noodles in our camping pot. The mosquitoes enveloped Kinnikinnick and she bit at them, twitching and shaking her small body, but Sonny’s coat was long enough that he was impenetrable, and he watched us quietly in a rectangle of evening light, his small paws crossed contentedly. As we ate our salty noodles on the grass, the mosquitoes frantically biting at the backs of our hands, we saw that Sonny was, at last, tired. And that night he slept like the sweet, lovely little being that we had always imagined him to be- cuddled up in Finn’s sleeping bag or on top of mine, his little rooster-tail curled blanket-like around his torso, eyelids stretched peacefully over his huge, bulbous eyes. The next day we hiked the four miles out, and Sonny was so contented that he was sweet and agreeable for the rest of the trip, sleeping or letting himself be pet, squinting up at one or the other of us with his big, wet-brown eyes as if he was the most gentle dog in the world. And, when we returned to Portland, we were only admonished slightly for letting him run until his paws bled.

Sonny and Kinnikinnick, sleeping peacefully on the drive home.

As the summer waned, wee Sonny became consistently more agreeable and relaxed, and he began to bond with people more quickly, and allow himself to be captured and petted more easily. He was, as Naomi said, finally learning how to open his heart to love. He clapped his hands now for me, when he saw me, and when I lifted him up he licked my nose with his small, baloney-scented tongue. I would hold him in my two hands and bury my face in his thick, good-smelling fur, and in his small ribcage I could feel his tiny, beating heart. At first, he had been reluctant, and in time, he had grown softer. And like all wary little dogs (my own included) who are finicky and particular with their affections, when the narrow beam of Sonny’s love fell, at last, on my own heart, I was almost blinded by the caliber of its pure, uncontaminated goodness.

Two weeks ago, Sonny was attacked in a friend’s house by a larger, more aggressive dog. The attack was supposedly over a treat that had been dropped beneath the kitchen table, and in seconds it was over. Sonny died moments later, in the car on the way to the hospital. He had been in our lives for eight months.

Sonny’s death was a total shock not only to the people who had witnessed it, but to everyone who had been in Sonny’s life. Sonny, so seemingly alive, so full of fire and energy, was now, somehow, gone, blinked away, disappeared. It made no sense at all- like if you said an entire block had disappeared, or like the pacific ocean was now gone. Sonny was real. Sonny existed. Like how flowers exist, or trees exist, or rivers exist. There was the sky, the maple trees, the park, and there was Sonny. Just like how there was Kinnikinnick, and Seamus, and our friends, and school, and Emy, and our lives, our routines, our small dramas, our hopes and dreams and fears. In all of that, was Sonny. Firmly real. In the flesh. We had assimilated him into the fabric of our lives, and the tentacles of his existence were wound into the minutes and hours of our days- he was a three-dimensional object that we had manifested, running free on the streets of Olympia, and then subsumed, until there was no boundary between us and him, between our realities and his.

As yet, as quickly and bizarrely as Sonny had appeared, he was gone. I had never seen a dog like him, and there would never be one again. He had been created, the mold had been broken, and then, less than three years later, he had died. It made me question, suddenly, my assumptions about the existence of all living things- all of these animals, humans, objects that I assume to exist, that I trust to continue to exist, that I wake up each morning assuming will still exist. All of the things that I take for granted to be real, all of the trees and blades of grass, the walls of my apartment, my strange, grumpy neighbors, my small brown dog, the ground beneath my feel. All these things that feel so solidly REAL, so rooted on this side of the divide between existence and non-existence- when it seems obvious, now, that anything, at any time, could slip through to the other side, without a moment’s notice. Like a crack can open up in this current moment, this experience of reality that I assume, foolishly, to be somehow solid, and whatever is closest to the crack will just be gone.

How do you live, then, when everything you love can suddenly be gone? How do you make choices when what seems so real, today, on Sunday, can shift like loose gravel and be so different, after a period of time, as to be totally unrecognizable? How do you hold on, or not hold on, to what you love- how do you hold on and let go simultaneously, how do you stay present, constantly, in the moment, while making the assumption, still, that the sun will rise tomorrow?

Sonny did not exist, and then he did. He was not in our lives, and then he was. We did not know him, and then we loved him, we shoved some random clutter off the folding card-table of our hearts to make room for him. And there is always room, an extra corner, a few square inches of love. There is always room for everyone, there is always enough space. And then, after Sonny is gone, there is a small, Sonny-shaped hole. And the wind blows through it, and it has the feel of an old, abandoned house. And it’s lonely.

Sonny is gone, and if I learned anything at all from Sonny, it’s that we exist right now. Tomorrow, then, is anyone’s guess, but for the moment we are solidly, firmly here, so real that it’s nearly incomprehensible, so big and complex and infinite and alive that I can barely fit the idea of us into the field of vision of my heart. Because when we are real, we are almost bafflingly so- the realness of us spills out, all over everything, as if there is too much of it, an infinite amount, like there will always be enough, like we could never possibly run out. Our realness, not guaranteed to spill forward in time, spreads around us, instead, into space- shooting like energy light-rays into the worlds that we inhabit, vibrating every other physical thing in our existence on a scale of which it is impossible to comprehend.

My brain is small, and I cannot begin to understand the complexity of our realness, the size of our existence. I settle, instead, for a stumbling sort of impression, like fumbling in a dark attic, feeling objects with the palms of my hands. I tell myself that I am learning, through careful observation, the shape and texture of our universe, when in reality, by looking, I only grow more and more disoriented. I can only assume that this puzzle, like so many mysteries, is a thing that cannot be looked at or thought about directly but only felt, sort of obtusely, with the larger, blunter muscles of the heart. Not a shape but a rhythm, a feeling- not the object itself but its tangled, colored fringe.

Sonny is gone, and I’m starting to wonder if he ever existed at all. Did I make him up? What is more real, my feeling for him or his actual self? And what now? Do we let the clutter build up, until the card table is covered over again?

And what of the gaping, Sonny-shaped hole in the paper wall of reality, where the lonely breeze blows through?

Sonny was buried in forest park, in the soft, black earth beneath some big-leaf maples. It’s November and the air is cold, and rain falls nearly every day. A few weeks before Sonny’s death, Naomi had bought him a tiny, expensive jacket- shiny, black, and stuffed with down, it kept him warm as damp winter settled down upon the city. Naomi kept the jacket after his death and I know that now, in his new forest home, Sonny no longer needs it. Because the forest, crowded, tangled organism that it is, is arguably more real than nearly any city block. There is more life, more living, more movement, happening both above and below ground, in the forest, than I can possibly understand- and in this way the forest is like Sonny himself. And if it’s true that consciousness is a sort of trap, and death is freedom, then Sonny is home, his energies gone twenty-five different ways, to join the riotous cacophony of the rainforest- and he is neither cold nor alone, but sort of infinite- for as long as it lasts, and after that, will be something else-

And we love him, and we miss him, and that’s ok/is not ok, and that irreconcilable contradiction, whatever comfort that it is, will have to be enough.

I am thankful. I am thankful for my health and my friends’ health and for my date and for our dogs. I am thankful that the heavens split open and rain down goodness and unbelievable decadence upon us again and again, like the universe is a slot machine and I keep winning and I’m shaking the machine and saying why do I keep winning? But the money just keeps pouring out, gold coins piling around my feet. Of course it’s not just winning it’s being able to know when you’ve won, and being able to say “yes, this is good enough” and then, later, realize “yes, this is as good as it gets” and then “one happy thing is every happy thing”. And there’s also giving up hope, realizing that hope is a form of capitalism, a belief in infinite growth and if there’s not that constant moving toward some other thing then you’re dead. Giving up hope you stop looking around you and you look down at your feet and you realize that you can’t even see them because they’re buried under about a foot of gold coins. And you feel so rich you don’t even want to move, barely want to breathe, because you’re afraid it’s all so fragile like a screen made of grass blades pinned together with chestnut thorns and that it’ll crumble if you look at it directly, like your gratitude is a strong wind that’ll blow it over, like how the sun can fade a photograph.

Over-eating pumpkin pie is one way of indirectly showing one’s gratitude towards the universe. There were three kinds of gluten-free pumpkin pie at dinner, and I ate as much as I possibly could, spacing it out all night until, in retrospect, the evening blurs together into one long taste of dull pumpkin, maple sugar and baking-soda crust, like an IV drip of pie. The best thanksgiving food, tho, will be the leftovers I make for breakfast, and the turkey sandwiches I make into infinity, thanks to Eddy the expensive (but priceless) co-op turkey.

I love feasting with my friends. I am thankful for so many things- but mostly I just want to catch this moment in my heart, this moment of being alive- because I am undoubtedly alive- and sometimes, still, that blows me over, even though I have been on this earth for nearly thirty years already. How is it that we are alive? Still I cannot believe it. In the great straws-draw of existence, I wonder if every single-celled or multi-cellular-complex organism doesn’t once in its life stop to wonder how they got so lucky as to be embodied in such a way, here and now, when there was so much that they missed, and so much that they will never see, how they ever got to be alive at all. And sometimes, when I stop fidgeting and stand still, I feel that time stops with me, and if I hold still enough, I feel that I can almost keep from startling it into motion again. And this always works except for when it doesn’t, and time passes but it doesn’t pass, and in the end, I always have it, even when I think I don’t.

The dog looks out at me from her small dog bed that is shaped like a basket and snuggles her, as though she were a cat. I think that it is, in fact, a bed made for a cat. She is very small, smaller than a cat. When I got a dog I wanted one that was cat-sized so that we would have cat-like snuggle sessions, but in truth cats are meltier, and have far fewer elbows, and dogs are somewhat rigid, and they do not melt to fit the shape of your stomach, when you are laying on your back in the bed, and they are spread lengthwise on top of you.

Still, I love her extremely. She lies in her little bed, now, with a bright red plaid flannel spread over her, and her little head hanging out between the blanket and the padded lip of the bed, and her small black eyes closed, and her triangle ears extended.

Last night I went over to my boyfriend’s house to have quality time, but really I was extremely tired, for no apparent reason except, maybe, the impending apocalypse, and my boyfriend was tired as well, on the computer sending emails, and his room was cold like an underground meat locker, even though it is in the second floor, and the windows look out at the boughs of a cedar that is older than anything and smells good, like vanilla.

I was tired and I took a shower in his nice shower, with the tiny, hologramish purple tiles and his nice bath products all lined up around my feet. I dried myself off with one of his damp and moderately clean towels, moved my hair with my hands so it was facing the right direction, and he gave me a pair of too-big blue sweatpants to put on.

We had sex, the sort of sex where one party is overly-tired and the other is capable of becoming enthused but is penned in between the parameters of the first party’s over-tiredness. When the sex was over I washed my hands and immediately forgot about it, and led the dogs downstairs so that they could potty in the backyard. My boyfriend asked if I was mad at him, and I remembered the sex, and said no that I was not, just tired and checked out the way it’s possible to be when one is tired, because nothing holds one’s interest. The surface of things is absolutely smooth, and there is nothing to stick to. Except, sometimes, I feel like crying.

A few days ago, in the dim grey of a clouded afternoon, I listened to a John Denver record on my record player, and cried. The record was slightly warped, the sleeve dusty and mildewed, the way that only books can mildew- dryly. On the album cover was John, crouched in some dry, late summer grass, his teeth small and unattractive, a floppy hat on his good, straight hair. I had never before, as far as I could remember, intentionally listened to John Denver. I’d bought the record on a whim, having never before bought a record. I was at Value Village with my boyfriend and he, having just found a cheap old record player, had me excited to buy one myself. There wasn’t another one, but there were records, so I bought a handful- Foreigner, Stevie Nicks, John Denver. And then, months later, I finally found a record player- nearly broken, for five dollars. And then, some weeks after that, two speakers. So I was at home, and the light was dim through the windows but my lamps were glowing yellowy, and the apartment was warm- and I put on John Denver, and watched with pleasure as the plastic record went round and round, somewhat warpedly, and then he began to sing. From so long ago, and loudly, but through the smallest hole, about hawks and the freedom of flying.

Did you know that John Denver died in a plane crash, over the pacific ocean, while flying his very own single-engine plane, in 1997?

Of course you know that.

I must have been fifteen at the time, just moved in with my grandparents. I was not much aware of John Denver, except that my mother had loved him. I am sure that the world had been simultaneously sad, spiteful, and disinterested when he died, the way that fame creates a web of relationships with the idea of one’s individual identity which becomes a mirror into which nothing but our own inner selves are reflected back at us.

I had not known John Denver before, and so I sat in my comfortable green chair and listened to his record, and felt a great sense of pleasure, and then began to cry.

I suppose I should feel surprised when I cry, now, because T is supposed to make it so you cannot cry, and I was not much of a crier in the first place. But I always forget to feel surprised, now, when I cry, which is fine, because then I remember that nothing about T is true, because we know nothing about T at all- or nearly nothing- we know just enough to make what we do not know, in contrast, seem enormous.

In fact, I seem to cry now, since I’ve been on a full dose, more often than I did before. Or maybe it’s because of the fall- because of the red and yellow trees, the heavy dark skies. The dull light, the gathering rain. I learned yesterday that the red and yellow pigment in the leaves picks up a different wavelength of light than the green pigment- that the red and yellow (and orange) are always there- hidden behind the green- and in the fall, when the light begins to change, the tree stops making the green pigment in order to optimize light collection in this new, stranger light, and the red and yellow are at last visible.

Is that why so many things are red, yellow, and orange in the fall? Winter squash, sweet potatoes, tree leaves? Is it the season of different wavelengths? If we lived in a sort of perpetual fall, would all the green things change to orange, or perish?

Is that why I feel so tired? Because I am not orange, only beigish? But I am not a plant, I do not have chloroplasts. I eat the plants, I do not fix the sugar from the sun.