Note to Housesitter

Feed the frogs. Do not forget. Twice a day, two pinches.

Please don’t smoke in my office. My wife smokes in every other corner of the house, so feel free to light up in any other place. Just not in my office. My wife, she’s a horrific smoker. Two packs a day, through her mouth, out her nose. In one hole and out the other in obnoxious drags. She’s coughing every day, that raspy nicotine hacking all over the place. Doesn’t even cover her mouth because she’d have to put down her cigarette.

Febreze everything, aside from my office. There’s a few spray bottles under the sink – use them all. Please, spray everything. She hates the smell of Febreze so my only chance to get rid of the smoke stench is when she leaves. And open the windows, but not the one by the terrarium. She panics, thinks the frogs will hop out the entire three feet to the sill.

I’m sorry. I feel as though this might be inappropriate, but I have to; you’re a female. Do you think its normal for a fully grown woman to be raising frogs? I mean, I used to work in the city, so I didn’t know what she used to do all day. Now, I work out of my home office (which reminds me, water the plants in the office, they are not plastic), so I see what she does. She’s with them all day. I come out of my office for lunch (there’s fish sticks and such in the fridge if you get hungry) and I find her there, hovered over the terrarium, smoking of course, cooing, stroking, whispering in their ears. You might ask yourself if frogs even have ears. They do, behind their eyes. I don’t even know if my wife knows this.

It would be one thing if she was educated about these frogs. But she’s not. She’s never taken even the slightest interest in any science, let alone biology. There’s even a few books about reptiles and amphibians in our study, but she hasn’t touched them. I have leafed through them in a search for answer to questions like ‘why does my wife give her love to amphibian?’ This answer is not in Amazing Reptile and Amphibian Records or Carter’s Biology Handbook. There are mostly fun facts.

I can tell you frogs have the strangest breeding habits. In South America, the Surinam toad mates in water. Fellars are eight inches long, so it must be bizarre to see them in the act. The female releases eggs right then and the male fertilizes them and presses them into her back. They lay like that for a few hours while a cyst grows around the cluster of eggs. The male hops off, goes on his way, and for a few months the female carries them around in this crusty pouch on her back until it splits, releasing the baby frogs. Absolutely strange.

The locked door is a nursery. Please just stay away from it.

As far as the bedrooms go, you can sleep in any guest bedroom. Might I recommend the blue one; the down comforter always puts me right to sleep, regardless of how stressed I am. There are more sheets in the closet in the master bedroom. Feel free to use whatever you like. You’ll no doubt find the bottle of lubricant by the bedstand, next to her ashtray. Don’t judge me. She’s into it. I never really tried it before her, but she really wanted to. It’s amazing she ever got pregnant, because I swear we have anal more than the garden variety sex. (Don’t worry about the garden. Haven’t really got around to growing anything yet. Our old house had a little plot next to the screen door. I used to grow wildflowers. But this neighborhood code is strict about landscaping; only shrubs in the front.)

Another fun fact. I can tell you that frogs can live without food or air for a whole year. If they have air, they can survive for over two years. Sometimes, when they are young, they crawl through a small crevice in a rock to get at some insects inside. They gorge themselves, only to grow so large they can no longer leave through the crack. So they wait to die. One year, two years.

I suppose that’s not a horrible way to go. Two whole years to achieve inner peace, balance, readiness for the afterlife. Our last housesitter, little Spanish maid, devout Catholic, told my wife there was no room in heaven for her frogs. And she also told my wife smoking is a sin, a betrayal by poisoning God’s earthly temples with ash. We had to get a new house sitter.

Please don’t forget to feed the little squirts. Their food is next to the terrarium. Twice a day, two pinches.

Anal sex really isn’t that different. Takes a bit more preparation, little more pre-planning. I’m sorry, I hate to bring it up again, but I did once and I don’t want you to think we are strange. Forgive me, we are new to this whole middle-upper-class thing. We moved into this place right after I got my promotion a year ago. Maybe because I work here now it doesn’t feel like home yet. Aside from the stench of smoke everywhere. This house is just so big. She wanted a big house for the little guy on the way, but the little guy didn’t make it, so we’ve got this big empty space that still manages to suffocate me. I’m glad we are getting away from a bit. I was beginning to feel like one of those frogs inside a rock.

Darwin’s frog, lives in South America. Female lays thirty eggs, and the male guards them for two weeks. Get this: he hops around with them in his mouth for two whole weeks. Thirty little droplets grow, feed on their yolks, ooze out of their eggs, and jump out of their father’s vocal pouch already half an inch big. Incredible. The responsibility. I think my wife wasn’t ready for it. All she worried about was getting a new house so our kid wouldn’t be cramped. She smoked up until the day we lost him. She went on an IV for a few days. On the way home, she made me stop to get some cigarettes. There was a pet store down the road. She bought her frogs.

These things are sad. I was sad. But they happen to everyone. They don’t mean we throw everything away and give our love to amphibians, you know? Aside from the frogs and the anal sex, we really aren’t interesting people. Don’t bother looking for anything else strange. There’s a safe in my office that just contains paperwork and a few invaluables. Nothing interesting in the medicine cabinet, just run of the mill Aspirin, Tylenol, Nyquill. Speaking of which, you know the phrase, frog in the throat? Originated in the middle ages. They used to think that the best way to cure a sore throat was to actually place a frog in ones mouth. The slime from the frog’s skin would coat the throat, apparently counteracting the victim’s phlegm.

Might I share a joke with you? Again, most likely inappropriate, but now that I work here I don’t have much contact with coworkers. I have to tell someone this. I’ve found a rather amusing solution to my “situation” – my wife’s smoking, her frogs, the anal sex. I was thinking about sticking a few of her frogs up her ass to satisfy whatever that sexual… need is. Maybe it could crawl up through her and sit in her throat for a while to cure that cough. In one hole and out the other.

WHAT IT TASTES LIKE

Allie. I never really liked your name. I would have preferred to call you Alyssa. I liked that a little better. You told me no, that’s what Ryan called you, so I called you Allie and I didn’t really like it.

They are suddenly calling you Alyssa now. I have half a mind to tell them you wouldn’t like it, but it’s probably not relevant. Not a lot is relevant now.

My left hand is cuffed to the chair and I’ve bitten all the nails on my right hand. I can taste you, Allie. In the crevices of my nails. Allie, what a strange thing, to taste you right now. What a disgusting, beautiful, tragically intense thing. After the blood, the snot, the tears, to taste you.

I keep biting. I bite hard, and deep. There’s a bit of blood now. I’m worried the police officer is going to think that it’s your blood, that I hit you more than once and got your blood on my hands, he’s already asked me about this and I said I hadn’t, it was only once, but now there’s blood on my hands. I suck the blood out. I can’t taste you anymore, Allie. I’ll never taste you again.

Allie, remember when you told me to stop biting my nails? I think of this now because I don’t know what else to think of. You said it was a bad habit. I said that if I quit biting my nails, I’d be perfect, and nobody's perfect, and I did that thing with my shoulders and palms and corners of my mouth that you love, that you loved. You laughed, Allie. You used to laugh, Allie.

Nobody's perfect, Allie. I never liked your name.

This isn't about you

There was a time that I began to believe that there was only so much of my love for you left, that because you weren’t generating it anymore, or maybe it would be me who generated the love for myself, whichever, whatever, that every memory and thought of you used up a little bit of my reserve. That this reserve was quantifiable, a thin, blue viscous fluid in a sac somewhere inside me, perhaps behind my lungs, maybe in a hollow space in my pelvis, I did not know. Inside of me somewhere. And once I believed it was in there, I found it was impossible to not think about it. It's impossible, absolutely impossible to not think about something. I could only forget about you long enough to forget why I needed to.

And fuck, fuck, if this reservoir exists, if this is true, I wasted so much of it in those first few nights with my cold bed and hot tears and the trying to convince myself that if I could just fall asleep, just close my eyes and slow down my thoughts, you’d crawl in beside me whenever you got back from wherever it is you’ve been. Where have you been? I’ve convinced myself you will return, with a new story about what happened at the traffic light, maybe you'd have a new t-shirt from this week-long convention you’ve been at, actually you'd probably just pass out and wait till morning to explain. Where have you been? I leave my door unlocked and it sickens me. I wake up alone, maybe with a little less of that clear blue fluid, maybe with none at all, maybe there never was any. I shower, and watch the water drain from the tub.

THE IMPORTANCE OF THINGS

The clock on the dashboard reads 11:11, but Jeff is not making any wishes because he is not paying attention to what time of the night it is. There are more important, pressing issues at the moment.

“Thucking thit.”

Jeff just spent five dollars and seventy five cents on something he really didn't need: a grande cup of organic shade grown Mexican coffee he bought at the last java joint before the open road.

Decidedly more disappointing and more important than spending that much on a cup of joe, regardless of the apparent exoticness of the blend, is spending that much on a cup of joe only to have it be wasted. Well, not entirely wasted. Wasted aside from one small, tongue-synching sip immediately followed by lisped swear words.

“Thethsus christht.”

Significantly less amusing but still more important than the misfortune of merely wasting a five seventy five cup of organic shade grown Mexican coffee grande and burning a tongue is spilling it in the lap of a forty-four dollar ninety-nine cent pair of weekend relaxed fit khakis that Jeff picked up when his wife forced him to go shopping three Sundays ago instead of watching the Pittsburgh Steelers play the Oakland Raiders on his forty two hundred ninety nine dollar liquid vision sixteen by nine aspect eych-dee tee-vee. If he was back in time this Sunday for the game with major playoff implications against the New England Patriots, he’d probably have to miss the first half to go buy new weekend relaxed fit khakis. But that’s not really important right now.

“Thuck. Toh thgod.”

This is because Jeff had no time to mourn the spilling of his coffee or the staining of his trousers or potentially missing that football game because of a much more important, pressing issue. Had Jeff been wearing stain resistant relaxed fit pleated khakis instead of a pair of weekend relaxed fit khakis, then the organic shade grown coffee would have been deflected from his lap, instead of soaking through his khakis and his briefs onto his unsuspecting, previously comfortable crotch. Even just purchasing an Italian roast iced coffee for three fifty could have averted the scalding pain to Jeff's genitals.

“Thuck, thuck.”

However, Jeff, despite it being a Tuesday on which he had not relaxed but worked, had thrown on his weekend relaxed fit khakis in his haste to leave his house and his wife. And he had, despite the price, been successfully lured by the apparent extravagance of shade grown Mexican coffee, and had thus burned and blistered his crotch moments after spilling his exotic beverage.

Astoundingly, there is a matter of more pressing importance than the loss of coffee, khaki, and even all the future potentially pleasurable sensations originating in or around Jeff's inner thighs, penis, and testicles. And that is, of course, that Jeff, along with his graphite pearl hybrid front wheel-drive sedan, is now in the middle of a rather serious car accident.

“Thucking christht.”

In the continuing theme of mildly ironic but mainly catastrophic factors that have led to Jeff's predicament, he had stopped by the gas station across the street from the last java joint before the open road and filled up the twelve point seven gallon gas tank in his hybrid sedan, which, by the way, is good enough for five hundred and fifty three miles on highway road, which, by the way, would take him five hundred and forty one miles away from his wife. Because of this very unpredictable car accident, Jeff only made it roughly thirteen miles away from her and instead of being on the open road, he is hanging upside down, suspended by a seat belt -- stained khakis, burnt crotch, and all -- under what should be the most pressing issue of the moment; the weight of two odd tons of gasoline soaked metal with a crumpled graphite pearl body which is currently sliding across a mostly deserted asphalt stretch of fluorescent-lit highway.

The crushed graphite body with Jeff suspended inside eventually loses momentum and comes to rest in the opposing lane of traffic. After all that violent noise and movement and the lisped swear words, Jeff has a few moments of silence and he spends them with calm and stillness without any more lisped, shouted, panicked swear words. Instead:

“Thlease thgod. Thnot thlike this. Thnot thonight.”

Even over the smell of gasoline, Jeff can still smell his wasted organic shade grown coffee grande. And even over the scalding, throbbing pain in his crotch, Jeff can still feel a slight pulsing in the left pocket of his weekend relaxed fit khakis. He assumes it is his wife calling and he thinks maybe his luck has changed.
Maybe by leaving his ringer on vibrate instead of silent and by it being past nine o'clock qualifying for free evening and weekend minutes, he has broken the chain of misfortune. Maybe now, despite the pressing issue of the hybrid sedan slowly crushing him or the potential for an errant flame to turn graphite pearl into graphite blazing inferno, he will finally be able to control at least something.

He can answer the phone. He can tell his wife that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't mean it, and this time maybe she'll believe him. He can tell her that despite a full tank and good gas mileage, he wasn't really going to leave her. He can tell her he's sticking with iced coffee from now on and that he's not going to wear khaki's anymore, that the Steelers game really isn’t that important, that he doesn't want to get a new hybrid now that this one is totaled -- that all he wants is to spend every moment with her, in her, near her, until he forgets every other pressing issue but the importance of her.

Hand to Heart Coordination

Adam knows that she doesn’t belong to him, but he also knows how to play this game.

She presses the soles of her feet up against his because she says they are cold. They feel so warm. He waits a moment before getting her a clean pair of socks. She puts on some soft spoken new indie breakout artist whispering about skin and breath and feelings that last forever. It's better than the tension in the silence, but he turns down the volume. She pulls on a blanket and he lays on top of it.

It’s a game and he plays it. And in the fourth quarter, on the final drive, with his moral sideline coaching drowned out by a stadium full of hormones, he leaves the huddle. After all his moves, his jukes, his carefully designed plays to keep her desirably close but appropriately far away, there is one play left.

“I’m tired,” she says.

“So am I.”

She moves a bit closer.

“I can walk you back.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Adam thinks that it would be wonderful if she didn't belong to someone else and if his bed, his name, and his memory didn't belong to him.

The Opacity of Thomas Monarch

On his twentieth birthday, Thomas Monarch
awoke to find himself quickly disappearing.

His reflection was fading and
he was rarely noticed on the street.

He was never called on in class and
he found himself continually being
ignored in social settings.

His thoughts, his words, his actions,
all diluted.

Before the week was out, he realized that
nearly all of his substance had been funneled
into the being of another, into the being of she,
into the being of her.

His deep well was now filled with transparency,
and yet his substance lived on in the deep rich opacity of her.
Where she used to be shallow and transparent,
now she was shallow and opaque with a blackberry hue,
giving the illusion of depth, of richness, of vitality.

And he, though empty, just watches birthdays
float by as he waits to be filled.

Curtains Prologue

NARRATOR:

For some of us it’s a monologue. For others its an audition, others perhaps an intermission. Maybe a scripted drama, unscripted reality show, first grade recital, broadway musical, indie flick, silent film, romantic comedy. We memorize our lines, cake on our makeup, layer on costumes for this thing we call life. A room full of actors, a room full of spotlights. Everyone too busy with his or her own boring routine to ever pay attention to someone else. Even those that manage to gain an audience wither into wrinkles under the glare of too many stage lights. Regardless who’s watching, regardless the length or the costars or the critical acclaim, each of us has our own time under the lights. We dance, we play, we rant, we rave.

Then it’s over. Whether it comes as a twist ending that leaves our audience gasping or a predictable joyous standing ovation, it arrives. It stands stage left, behind the curtains, just out of sight of the applauding audience. It lets us collect our roses, our goodbyes, our selves. There’s no cane yanking us off stage. There’s no trap door that opens the ground beneath you, unless, of course, your life is an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical. When we’ve drawn it out as long as we can, it nods. A spectator might witness it as a passive congratulatory recognition.

It’s not. It’s a signal. It’s time – final bow, final breath. We live this life, with all of its drama, so the last thing we hear before we die is “curtains”.

They Cadenced, They crescendoed

When Thomas met her, he could hear better. Ridiculous, yes. But true. Furthermore, the noises in his life came together. They coalesced. They cadenced. Frantic ringtones, clinks of bottles, rustling sheets, even the beats between keystrokes. As he grew with her, so did the sound. It crescendoed and for a moment it played a note that was perfect. More perfect than she was. It woke him up, and with her asleep in his arms, he listened. Then, the quickly unraveling melody, the cacophony. The lack of harmony, and now, the silence.

Catch and Release

My dad’s keychain was fish bait out of water, with resin scales, glass eyes, and chipped paint from years of the ins and outs of denim pockets, driving to ballparks, hardware stores, golf courses – but never fishing. That, he never taught me, but not for his lack of knowing. He had his fishing stories, voice flowing, then rippling when it spoke of loss; Grandpa passed, maybe, ten years ago now. Dad said I could have his tackle box, but that’s not really what I want. I want him to know he taught me everything one can learn from blackberry hued morning water and the delicacy of weighted lines without ever going fishing. I don’t know what the whirl of currents means or where to land the sinker when the water is cloudy, but I do know that this life is about respect, about patience. I know that the pond isn’t half empty but half full and that no matter how hard the fight or big the fish, sometimes, it’s right to just let him go.

Mine and Mine Alone

Whispers,
letters,
all my words were
white warm and true
when I dipped you
in them.

And now
thick black mucus
slides out, wild,
................filthy,
................obnoxious,
enough for at least
six (or several)
inkwells.

Keep it.
It’s yours.
It’s from you
and you

alone........Write what
.................you want with
.................it.

My story is white
warm and true:

....................We met on a
........Sunday, napped a lot.
.....I liked to be kissed and
..............you liked it when
......................I called you
........................pretty girl.

That’s my story
and it’s mine
and mine

alone........Do what
.................you want with
.................it.

The Exposure of Trees

[1]
“Mother says if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, it didn’t fall. Maybe if I hadn’t heard father die, father’d still be standing.”

But he heard his father fall. He heard the snapping of a twig. He thought he could hear the breath of the deer behind the bushes. Breath. And another. A snort. And another breath behind the bushes. He heard the click of his trigger and gunshot echo off the hills and when he heard the grunt he knew it was his father breathing behind the bushes, not the deer. He heard the cracking of decaying leaves and locust shells under his feet as he ran to get help. And the engine’s snarls as the help he got raced back into the forest. He heard it all and his father fell because of it. Maybe. If a man falls in a forest and his boy doesn’t hear it, did he really fall?


[2]
“Mother, mother, mother. Does a tree have a soul?” asks a boy at his father’s funeral.

A boy can’t stop asking questions of his mother any more than the roots of a tree can stop pulling water from the earth. Even when his mother is trying to cry, but just dry heaves instead. Even when the earth wants to rain, but just dries its leaves instead.

“Mother, if a tree falls in the forest what happens to its soul?”

A mother sighs and kneels to meet the eyes of her child. “Your father was a good man.”

“I’m not asking about father, I’m asking about trees.”

“Maybe you should be asking about father.”

“I know about father. I don’t know about trees.”

“You’re going to need to grow up. Your father fought wars when he was only a few summers older than you.” Her son frowns. The mother sighs and stands and runs her hand over the wooden casket that held her husband. “Yes, trees have souls.”

The boy’s mother has family in a whistle-stop on the other side of the mountains. They come for the funeral, in white and black and gray. The ash of coal has been wiped from their boots and hands and has been replaced by the dust of roads. Their religion is tradition and their tradition is embedded in soils far below the lowest roots of oaks. These people believe that a photograph steals their souls, incarcerating them in graven images. The boy tugs on the hem of one of their dresses.

“What happens to the soul once it’s stolen?”

The woman knows about the boy’s role in his father’s death and decides it’s best not to answer.

[3]
The boy grows up on his diet of questions and answers and there comes a day when he makes his way to the shed where his father kept his things. In a cardboard box, along with a hunting knife and war medals, the boy finds an old camera. There’s a roll of film still inside the camera. He waits some time before taking it to be developed. They are portraits of this world of speed and brilliance from the eyes of his father that fell in the forest. The boy thinks that maybe photographs can save souls instead of stealing them.

The boy cleans out the shed where his father used to prepare the deer he shot. The first things to go are his father’s guns. Then the ropes, the buckets, the saws. The boy can’t bring himself to throw away a box of antlers and hoofs and buries them instead. Once the shed is clean, he patches up the cracks in the wooden siding and hangs an old towel over the window.

Now his mother asks the questions.

“What are you doing out in the shed?”

“I’m not forgetting about father.”

He buys a roll of film and goes into the forest where his father fell, and within days he’s hanging pictures of trees on the line in his darkroom, souls slowly developing. His mother asks another question.

“Who said the souls of these trees need saving?”

“You did.”

[4]
Years later, on the anniversary of her husband’s death, the mother asks her son.

“Will you come with me to his grave?”

“I can’t, mother. I have somewhere to be.”

“Son, it’s his anniversary.”

“That’s why I have somewhere to be. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’m going to plant flowers and clean his gravestone.”

“Mother, there’s trash in the forest where it happened and I have to go clean it up.”

“You should go with me. Why won’t you go with me?”

Her son shakes his head. “You go to celebrate his death.”

On the way into the forest, the road folds on itself, again and again, a mobeus strip that smells of earth and tastes of wind. There's no direction here and the only thing the boy is sure of are the two pieces of asphalt beneath his feet. Even then, reality leases him that space for a moment's breath, and for a moment's breath only. But that's enough. One inhale-exhale is about as long as the boy can stand still; he's already signing his name on a lease for a new plot of land, just inches in front of the other.

[5]
This was the forest where his father fell, but the trees have been cut down by a man in orange with metal teeth. Like the branches snapped under the weight of a falling tree, the boy is crushed.

“Mother, mother, mother. A tree fell in the forest and the man who cut it down heard it so it must have really fallen. But don’t worry. The man couldn’t take its soul because I have it. It’s just a photo in a glass frame in our living room, it’s just a picture of a tree, it’s not in focus and the exposure is wrong, but mother, it’s still a soul.”

“Mother, mother, mother, father fell in the forest, but I didn’t have my camera then.”

On Bleeding Hues of Us

I.
After the blood loss, I injected
my chest with thick oil paint.
Alizarian Crimson for > oxygenated >
and Cobalt Blue for < venous < .
..................I thought someone might
..................want to paint a picture with
..................my earthly remains so I took
..................a shot of Cadmium Yellow
..................with a turpentine chaser
..................so the mortician could paint
..............................with this
..........(.........world's whole spectrum.........)
.........................at his brushtips.

II.
Before you
.................. (and us)
I think maybe I
was an artist and now,
after you
.................. (and us)
I'm artwork..........................................out
of..............con...text..............[framed]
...........with.........out...........................you
nailed to a museum
wall, with a plaque to
tell the casual standerby
who I am, in
..................1 life,
..................2 art,
..................3 love,
..................(and us).

III.
..................__________________
..................Samuel Yingling
......................ca. 2005-2007
......................72 x 33 inches
......................Blood on canvas,
......................oil on flesh, lips,
......................toes, thighs, knees,
......................penis, elbows, heart,
......................fingertips.
..................On loan from the
..................private recollection
..........................................(of us).
..................__________________

Saddle for a Trojan Horse

I.
I wanted to build
...a wooden saddle for
......your back,
better than
...all the other ones
......you’ve had

so I bought a box
...of your teeth......!on sale!
on a shelf under
...............neath your nails.

II.
In the back
......yard, I saw a father
............with his son,
holding a hammer,
............showin his boy
how...it
.....is...done

“You...just...hit
....the..nail....up
..on..the....head,
...ham....mer...it
...in.....to...wood.
Just...hit...the
...nail... up...‘long
..side..its...head,
.....like...any...good
..boy...should.”

III.
Your teeth, your nails,
..the ones I hammered into wood
....to build that horse.
Your nails, the ones I hammered
....into you and
hammered into
...and I hammered you
and hammered and
...hammered
......until the wood was limp.

Draining Water from the Tub

And life, well, life just is. It's there. There's no metaphor, there's no motif. There's life. On some days, it means love. It means being sung to sleep and then waking up, sweaty, smiling. And on other days, it means loss. It means that there's no way I can get out of the shower until I see all the water drain from the tub. It means knowing that I could theoretically go get that water -- that it's possible, that it still exists in a sewer, in a lake, in a cloud, in someone else's body or fishbowl -- but that realistically, I can't. And I shouldn't. The water just passes over me, cleans me, nourishes me, drowns out everything else for me, sits in the wrinkles of my fingers and the corners of the tub, and then drains and dries and flows away.

Take Comfort in Roadkill

She is more sad than roadkill. Her chirps more mournful than the screech of tires. Her energetic movements more wrenching than the glazed eyes that litter roads. Her and roadkill, victims of progress, unrecognized sacrifices for no higher purpose. Both there, neither understanding why. Roadkill and her.

I spotted her in the Hilfiger department, perfectly perched, juxtaposed in front of an advertisement. A clothes line, a crystal sky, a lush field. Judging by her beautiful song and energetic movements, she probably thought spring had arrived. It hadn't. Outside of the false stale heat of the department store, it was still crisp, frigid winter. Out there, the roadkill froze. In here, she thought she found refuge. Of course, with her birdbrain, she thought wrong. In here, she found a song far sadder than any sung before.

She flew in from outside, attracted by the warmth of the mall. She dipped over the glass windows, zipping through a small crack where a rafter met a pane. The moment she entered, drawn in by the dull hum and sanctity of warmth, her fate was sealed. She didn't know of the translucency of glass, or the probability of finding another crack. She only knew warmth.

Below, the froth of humanity flowed back and forth, bubbled up elevators, rippled through aisles and aisles of clothing. Purple shirts. Red pants. Corduroy, denim, plaid, pleated. Spring jackets, winter coats. Shirts with birds on them. Pants made from road kill. A million articles for a single purpose, warmth.

Having already conveniently solved that problem, she flitted around without a care on her small heart. She sucked into the department store at the end of the mall, dancing around, pecking at the gum on the carpet. Unfortunately, the food court sat at the other end of the mall. She'll never find it, or the pet store, or giant fountain, or any other part of the mall a bird might enjoy. She'll never find that crack, that ticket outside. She'll never find her nest, or her mate, or a branch, or a cloud.

Because no matter what instincts God gave her, no matter how many times she had flown before, today was her last flight. No amount of skill or instinct could guide her to that small chip in the window. She's lost. She's chirping now. Eventually that will change. Within a few weeks, just as the dirty snowdrifts in the parking lot are melted by spring, she will fall silent. The pretzel crumbs and candy wrappers will no longer sustain her. She will die of starvation. By the time her chirps turn to screeches, real warmth, not false, will have brightened the outside. By the time her curious pecks at the gum on the carpet become desperate, winter will have dripped into spring. By the time she dies of starvation, lost in a world of Hilfiger and Kaufmanns, I will have alreayd forgotten the fate of a poor bird lost in a department store.

There are fates worse than roadkill. To go quickly, ignorant, never knowing of the entrapment in a larger web. That is something we can all hope for; a peaceful spot between the yellow striped lines where we are gone before the second car even passes. But to be lost, truly lost - therein lies the life I fear. Trapped in a world of commercial posters, neon signs, corporate fireworks. Never actually recognizing the difference between the beauty of spring outside and the spring on the Hilfiger ads. Becoming so entranced in the sights and sounds of a developing world that we lose the crack in the facade that lets us back outside.

Emulsion

The Amish believe that a snapshot steals their soul. That would make this room a gallows. That would make these photos corpses dripping in blood red alkaline, souls slowly developing.

There are two things in these photographs; space and matter. The distance between two bodies and the hearts that feel it. The emptiness in mouths and the tongue that seals it. The gaps between fingers and the flesh that fills it.

For him, these pictures -- these souls -- are all that are left of her. It is possible that some of the dust floating in this darkroom is her dead skin. It is possible that some of the liquid glistening from the photographs were once her tears. It is possible the air, the stuff of breathing, once kissed her lips, filled up her lungs, and fueled her blood cells. But now, the most important piece she has left here is her soul. Slivered into millions of electrons and pressed into silver emulsion, becoming photographs, mirrors with a memory, drawings of light and darkness and matter and space.

On the counter, next to chemicals and film, there is a cardboard box. In it sits a few cds, maybe some notes, and a boy’s corduroy jacket. There are still movie stubs in its pocket, along with a shredded Kleenex and mints from a fancy restaurant.

Hanging on the line is a photograph of her wearing this jacket, his jacket. She’s looking straight out and he’s framing her with his arms and a kiss. Hanging on the line is a memory, a corpse, a sliver of soul stolen and hung up to dry.

Somewhere, someday these shots will be exposed to this world of brilliance and speed that invades his darkest of rooms. Maybe he’ll love again with all his body and all his heart, but never with all his soul.

Hurting Slowly, Healing Slower

Thomas’s friends told him to do it the same as when taking off a band-aid; quick and painless. Thomas considered this possibility because he didn’t like pain, especially of the heartbreak variety. However, he couldn’t quite handle the metaphor of a discarded band-aid to represent the last two years of his life, the love that he so carefully and intensely painted with bright strokes of commitment and affection. Furthermore, he resented the idea that his original self needed a bandage in the first place. What is it about relationships that make people think they are a means of completion?

“You complete me.”

“You fill me up.”

Bullshit. Is it not possible that Thomas went into the relationship as a complete person? Is it not possible that Thomas was not empty when he was looking for a girl to love?

Thomas would not rip her off quickly and painlessly. He would not discard her and forget about her as soon as the scar faded. Thomas wanted to hold on to this feeling of loss that follows the end of a relationship because he felt there was something to learn from it. Thomas believes that the strongest people in the world are those that can still learn when they are at their weakest.

She, the girl who has left him at his weakest, lives down the hall in his dorm. She still leaves her door unlocked. He still crawls into her bed every night and she rolls over to hold him. A lot of people might think it weird that Thomas stills sleeps with the girl he broke up with, but those same people think relationships are analogous to band aids. Thomas knows this whole breakup business will be hard work that won’t happen in a single fight, no matter how hard they yell or hit or cry. Thomas knows these things take time and he’s never pretended otherwise. She asks him to stop coming in but she still leaves her door unlocked.

Thomas knows this must stop and has always known this. Every morning he leaves her warm sheets a bit earlier. Eventually he starts crawling in later in the night. After a month or two, he’s not even falling asleep with her. And although that moment he spends in her presence is probably still the best moment in his day, he begins to think of her less. In no time at all, he just lies down, hugs her, and tucks her in. One night he just opens her door, looks for a moment, and goes back to his own bed. The next he just pushes it open a crack. By now, she no longer expects him to come in at all. A week later he just taps on her door, ever so gently.

She doesn’t hear it but her sleeping body shifts to make room for a boy who is no longer there.

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