A little bit each day

So I left work early - am doing laundry now and packing to be away from the house for 4 days

Coming back by myself felt so odd - I see things so differently now

I am much more OK when I am not here, but when I view the sheer enormity of the STUFFF

and this STUFFFFF

No wonder he took off taking almost nothing, the STUFF weights you down.

He really should come back and help me deal with this, I just don't understand what he is so afraid of. it's just wrong to leave such a mess. I took care of him for so long and he promised to take care of me and now when I need it the most, he is not here. How could he feel it was OK to not do the responsible thing?

Look me in the eye and tell me why - or at least call so I can hear your voice. Why can't things be different

And where is Mary in all of this = silent = nowhere. Is she really there with him? Or is she dropped along the way. Did she even exist?

I don;t even feel like I exist. J told me today (when he took me to lunch) that I seemed like a different person, like a shell of who I was, none of the radiance of happy - none of the confidence. Just none of me. He felt so bad. I feel bad, very bad. But what can I do, he won't ever come back. We could rebuild if he wanted. We've done it before, but he chose to not face me.

No email from him today, no call

I've started calling realestate people, and I called the fence people

practical stuff has to happen eventhough every time I think about it, my heart rips from my chest

Teru gave me flowers last night, they are beautiful and healing and made me cry a little

WHy don't I know what he is feeling?

His last email said so much, but still didn't tel my why - it did, but I still feel there is somthing missing

Look into my eyes whisper this into my ear - why why why

Harmony Dawn

I had my very first professional reading last night from a person I know through the music scene called Harmony.

She saw me at the Thylacine show the other night and gave me a big hug. She didn't know what had happned and noone told her but she could see that I was sad.

We went to her resturant and she told me things that made the hair raise on the back of my neck.

I will leave most of it private for me in my heart, but alot of what she said made sense and made me feel like not everything was broken.

Most of all she said that he would eventually be back (april) but I had to choose my life path and if I would choose to let him in or not. And that May 31st was an imporatnat day for me.

She also kept calling me "little bunny", which made me so sad. How would she know that name?

She also told me to have sex with someone who has a pony tail - which was a riot

I guess I better keep my eyes open

I wish I could look into his eyes and see what was inside there

My friend from Chicago called, it was everything I could do not to get in a plane and go there, try and find him

But what good would it do

Why has he isolated me from him life

Maybe I didn't do everything right, but do I deserve this mental torture

Why call others and not me

I am the little bunny

me, noone else really ever got to know him and now he has pushed me off a cliff and I'll never stop falling

why didn't he just kill me

Ther eis so much out there for you Steve - I wish you had let me keep coming along with you

YET another Fing house thing to worry about

The alarm broke yesterday - I had to rush home. My hope was that it was actually Steve comeing home and had just made a mistake, but it was the alarm itself. I had to have a technition out this morning to fix it and nothing is the same as it was before

I also cancelled the calbe access, but left the internet

Can you BELEIVE they charge you $50 to do that WTF at least that will save me $60 a month (after I pay that 50 that is) but I have to have a technition come to the house next Monday

I hate being here alone with those people, maybe someone will come saty with me for the day

I am also going to ask the fence company to come out and put up that new fence - $$$$$$ but I feel I'll loose a ton of $ on the house if I don't, I mean who wants to live next to a junk yard

I am also cashing in my amex points and getting a new stove and dishwasher - that should add value to the house

I hate to have to do this alone I really hate hate hate it

if he would just come back and deal with this stuff too, esp since most of the stuff in the house is actually his - I was surprised actually that that was the case, but when I was going through the bedroom, I literally have 2 boxes of stuff but he had 12 black garbage bags

I didn't get rid of the clothes though, this is not a "divorce house"

Sigh

what am I going to do, this is a nightmare

Here is a weird thing about me - I was never able to have an ograsm while masturbating until Robot showed me how.

This morning , for the first time since this whole thing, I tried to masturbate - nothing, just tired and then crying - remembering the last time we made love and how sweet and loving it was.

************

Then my mind turns on me and I think these aweful things like

Are they using condoms (there were none in the garbage)
Is marie on the pill now - she wasn't a few weeks ago, she told me

Maybe they are not having sex at all - but if they are - what if there is a baby

I am still going to write out everything that has happened - but I think I need a quiet saturday morning for that

I got a call lat night but it was from private... was it him> I didnt make it in time and when I realized, I cried and cried. it was 1am or so (I thin) and I cursed the srugs that were making me sleep

but I know withut them I would be crazy. Lat week they tried twice to put me in the hosptial. I can;t let that happen

I have convinced them that I am eating - it makes people happy to think that

But how can I eat when all I want to do is vomit

Tonight I am going to harmony t get my future told. She begged me the other night, soaid I needed it and gave me a hug. "Please don't hurt yourself dear one. the hurt came from outside not in." How dies she know I want to rip the skin from myu body that he once exlaimed during sex
"you skin is so tight" integrated with your body

Does he care about my feelings. Dont hide from all of this

I want to see him so much I want him to show me in his black pools of eye that this is the right thing

Why do I have to start over just becaue he wasnts to. With this promise of marrage he said i would nvere have to be ithout him. Now its been more then a week

I constantly feel itt. I cant stand this

help me clean up what used to be our life - it is not fair to leave me with the pieces - even Ana said this was the most cruel way

He said he would read this because he cares about me and what I am going though

What do I get from him to tell me what he is going through?

I care too, deeply. I love him

Maybe he is rightk, he can't return, but it is NOT fair to make me go through this stuff

this was his life - he needs to put it away, not run away like a teenager

Why am I left with this, why am I so empty

I wish the house would just burn down and take me with it

How many times can I respond to "how are you"

do peole want the truth - I am destroyed. The person you knew is not inside this body. part of the 14 lbs I lost was my soul

Clonazepam

That is what they gave me help me sleep - silly me it;s not a sleeping aid 9but boy did it work) but an anti anxiety pill

Workd for that too, I've stopped shaking and my thoughs have stopped racing

Am I normal - no
but I do feel a bit more in control

I talked to Steve's sister-on-law last night

She was saying on how she couldn't imagion that his person, doing this to all of us was actually her brother-in-law

She said

"Steve would never do this, it just doesnt make sense. Granted he is capabale of huge change, but its never been change that was cruel"

She said even when she talked to his first wife during his first divorce that it was hard for that woman, but Steve always made her feel loved and like he was going to support her and do the right thing.

Here that is just not the case

What changed? Why would he become the person he hates. Someone with no thought for others

This is not steve

I found another pony

My sister wanted to make cookies and we were looking for stuff and one of the Pony cards was in a drawer.

I love you forever Edrie - love Marie

That along with the dreadlock I found near the bed - oh man

I wish you did love me Mary - I wish Steve did too

why didn't you take me on your adventure

How could this have happened to me

Last time I was divorced it was hard - there was emotional distress but it wasn't like this.

Steve and I were connected, we depended on each other. I needed him and he took care of me like I took care of him

And now - nothing, empty and left with everything again

What is wrong with me? Everyone says I am a rock star, beautiful woman who is so nice and gives and gives, but if the person who is closest to you in the world can betray you like this, what is left?

My sister is leaving soon - then I will be here, by myself with this stuff and all of these memories

This house is nolonger safe for me. If I had a rope I would hang myself from the beams

A song he wrote for me to sing, but one he always sang better - I wish I would have listened then. I am not even sure now what he wanted me to know

Seldome do we see
Our passions realized
Seldome do we free
These visions is disguise
Often it will seem
That floating is like flying
Often it will be
That living is just lying

Tell me what you mean
When you say you are dying
ask me if I trust
The stories that I'm minding
Often it will feel
Like I had perfect timing
Often it will be
The I was only climbing

{Chorus:
If I
Could take away
Every sinfle word
I can't
Say for sure
That I think I could]

Seldome do we pay
the debts of our sins
Seldome do our lives
Give up and let us in
Often it is gray
On the other side of town
Often it will be
We'll never make a sound

If you pay me now
I'll never let it go
And remember that I tried
To realize things I know
Often it had felt
Like I had perfect timing
But really what is was
That I was only climbing...

The realestate agent guessed that he left me and warned me not to get rid of too much stuff, esp the clothes

"people don't want to move into a DIVORCE house" she said

I hadn't considered divorce before she said that and I started to cry - My poor sister - she cries so much too

I wanted to throw out the bunnies, but I couldn't do it

I think I am having a break down

I have never felt like this before

Is there anyone there to help me

Why is my life partner gone - this was forever

it is a very dark time

I think I should not email him anymore. Granted I need him to sign papers and to deal with his stuff, but I am guessing that he has turned a cold hard mind to anything I say. He is so good at it that it is chilling. I tried to help him today, warn him that he might not get back from where he had gone if he was not careful. I knew where he was and didn't tell anyone.
But I should tell everyone, I should hire a private investigator and find him

But what good will it do, I lost him to himself and his mind and his cold heart. I would take him back in a second if he changed his mind, but he won't.

I am cleaning out my bedroom right now - I found this and it hurts so much

A birthday card I wrote him for his 30th birthday

10/10/2004

Steve,

There is so much I have already said, yet still, every second breeds more. More Truth, more Beauty, more Love. As a man of 30 years you have explored much of these in turn and yet the Ultimate Knowledge of each is still a quest. I see this quest as ours to share, ours to map out, ours to complete.

On your bithday I wanted to give you something that you wanted but didn't expect. The surprise party was all about the Truth of friendship, the Beauty of the unknown and my Love for a man who has changed my way of being and living in this "age of (the) empty mind".

For the next 30 I don't want you to "wondeer where the years have gone and if we could have gone along". Instead we will be on that journey with open minds, hearts and souls.

Now the cleche of need - only us, only me only you.

I love you Steve. I wish a satisfying and completeing journey, Remember to stop along the way for hugs, kisses, naked napping and Big/little B(b)unny cuddling

- Sarah

You said it was hard for you to leave your stuff and your family and friends and to do something just for you.

I understand hardship. it does not have to be the way you think it does. People are more forgiving then you ever thought.

Everyone loves you and wants to help you. I wish you had seen that before you left. I wish you had seen the possabilities because they were there. You could have had help.

The reality is... you still can

Come home, call me

3/19/06 � Comment

I decided that all of the stuff in my head needs to get out on paper. Because of the funny way time moves forward. Some of the things in here are true only for the time I have written them (today) and some are true only for when they happened. Because my feelings are constantly changing and what I remember is more or less emotional, I have tried to write the facts as I know them. I only have my side and random emails Steve has sent. I would say I have history as well, the history of our relationship to draw on, but I can�t say that the history matters to this story because is seemed to not matter to him. If it did, would this have happened? It doesn�t feel inevitable, but maybe after I write our life out... I will see it that way.

The bottom line in all of this is that no matter what, I still love him and have a safe place for him to come to. He hurt me very badly and if he can live with himself, I can forgive him.

Come home Steve, Face this. Rule your life like you say you want to, like you say this was for. Face up to it and make it yours. Right now it is something you started but have not followed through on. You are better then that. You know it. You have learned so much. Don�t throw it away out of fear.

***************
What I remember


Steve always wants to feel very closely connected to people. If he doesn�t he gets depressed and doubts his relationship with them. It happened with his first wife and then with me. Here is what I remember of the incident. This is from my point of view, which is the only one I have since Steve left and won�t talk to me on the phone or in person and I do not know where he is.

Steve and I have been through alot he is bipolar and tends towards the depressed. I w3as very happy in the relationship, but it was a challenging one filled with constant work making sure he was ok. He worked too, not just me. He worked to feel better.

We started talking about what he wanted to do in life. Graduate school seemed a distinct possibility. I was encouraging. Happy he wanted to try. He seemed more dedicated to that then he had to anything in a really long time. Steve tends to go overboard when he wants to get into something. Grad school was no different. It was emotional for him. He did tons of research and bought a great number of books and online aids. He was narrowing down his choices. But he was scared I now he was. Nervous he would not get in even if he did his best. I think that fear of failure had a lot to do with him running away. He was faced with a life-changing event and he couldn�t face the fact that he might have to work really hard and still not get what he wanted. I told him to try. That this fear is normal. I had it. But Steve was no confident in his secret heart he thought he would fail. I knew that he wouldn�t if he went into action instead of into emotion.

Then there was the job. He really hated it and was constantly disappointed by his work and his boss and the general way things were done. He tried so hard. But nothing worked. We talked for a long time and he resigned. It really was the best thing but then he got scarred. Now that he wasn�t working he had no excuse but to buckle down on grad school. And maybe that is not what he wanted in life? But what did he want? Then came Mary

Mary is energy in black clothing. She is light and darkness and fun with razors. She excited Steve from the second he knew her. We�ve been friends with her and Walter for over a year but Steve needed a closer connection. He tried several others. Several more safe options before the night Walter and Mary came over.

Mary was self-destructive that night. She gave me a tarot reading that predicted the future that she wanted. Living with me loving me having sex with me. But I was scarred. I wanted her too, but I knew that would destroy Steve and Walter. So I went to bed. She came in with me, tried to convince me, but I said no. I could not ruin what I had. Even if I wanted t o go in that direction I was not fair unless I was open with both Steve and Walter. Mary was not open. She was closed and would never tell Walter her true feelings. Mary drank and Walter went to bed. I stayed in bed. Steve got sucked in and stayed up with her all night. It affected his stability. He was worried and neurotic. She had him. She was inside his head. There was the connection.

He tried to fight it off but it just got stronger. She was everything I was not. Spontaneous where I was a planner. Crazy where I was careful. Young where I was ancient. I love Mary, but she wanted this to happen and it did. She is more powerful then I am. Then we went to their house to hang out. I didn�t want to go. 1/4 of the way there I told Steve this was a bad idea and that I felt ill. He laughed at me. Told me I was silly. We went and had a really fun time. I watched a movie with Walter while Steve and Mary did a bass lesion in the barn. The bass lesion was not all music. It turned out to be furtive passion. Walter and I did not know, we were so relieved that things seemed to be OK again, that Mary and Steve were just friends. We had no idea of the pain to come.

Mary hugged me and kissed me on the lips before we left. Steve shook Walter�s hand. We drove home and Steve was tired. Could not talk. This happens often, but I should have known. I should have seen this coming. The next day I was staying home from work as a treat to myself. I should not have done this, looking back now. But it seems inevitable. Steve took a 2-minute shower. I thought he was acting strangely, but that maybe he was just worried about driving in (he had always hated doing that so I had taken over for the last 2 years). In reality had had taken a bunch of pain pills and a huge knife and out them in his backpack. He was falling over the edge of sanity and I didn�t know. He lied to me, to my face. Told me he was happy I was staying home and to have a fun day free of worry. He told me not to call his cell phone. I had no idea why, but why question your husband whom you love. I am not sure of the exact sequence of events. But he did go to work that Monday (3/6) but left quickly and went to see Teru at her work (10amish). He stayed for along time telling her about things. She urged him to go home to talk to me. She thought he would. He told her about the pills but not about the knife. She did not call or email me until 4pm to tell me. In the mean time I had called Steve at work a few times with no response. I did get a message saying he had quite a few meetings and would be unavailable until 2pm. It was a lie. He was already gone from the office when he left that message. I finally got a call at 4pm from Steve. I knew instantly NOTHING was right. I freaked a little. He tried to tell me everything was OK, but I could tell. He was talking like he used to when he was in the hospital. All disconnected and vague.

I got an email from Teru at the same time. It made my heart sink. I showered and drove in to meet Steve for 6pm in Central Square. He was gregarious but sad. He wanted to meet in public. I freaked out. He told me he had almost killed himself and that he had almost run away with Mary. She didn�t know about the knife or the pills. He lied to her by omission as well. He kissed her, touched her. Told her he loved her. It hurt me so much. I am a clam and rational person, I rarely let anything out, but that night in the restaurant I cried, I yelled I screamed. He had almost hurt himself and he had lied lied lied to me. And now he thought him choosing to come home would instantly make it better. I was so hurt. We went to our favorite hotel. Stayed the night to make it better. He missed a counseling session with his therapist. I wish I had made him go. We bathed together, I felt odd being naked with him. We slept but I was so sad. So angry at myself at him at Mary. I asked him to give me time and he seemed to want to, but in classic Steve fashion, he couldn�t wait as long as I needed.

We talked alot, Mary sent me email. I was jealous at first and then I was sad. Sad for them and sad for me. I thought things would get better. I told him they could still be friends if she was honest with Walter and if STEVE himself faced Walter. She did not want him to, but Steve did not know it was because she wasn't telling Walter the whole truth, just a small part of the resemblance of the truth. (I hope she gets over that - or it will hurt Steve a great deal in the long run)I wish he had done that because Mary wasn�t as honest with Walter as she told Steve she was being. I wish I had called Walter and told him everything I knew because he thought it was a crush. He didn�t know the extent. He was left in the dark. He didn�t deserve that because I have come to find out he is sensitive and sweet and would not hurt a fly (or even a 1/2 dead mouse).

Timing is everything. My sister was coming to visit me for 2 weeks. The First time in 5 years that we would get to hang with each other by ourselves a bit. We decided on a NY trip long before any of this happened. She came on Thursday of that week. We left for NY the morning for Friday the 10th. Steve stayed behind. He told me to have fun, sent me email and text messages assuring me not to worry. I am not sure if it was the beginning of the lies or if that was the truth and because he won�t talk to me in person, I will not know.

Friday night he met Mary at a coffee shop and then took her to dinner at our favorite sushi place (a place I will never eat at again). What he told me of the meeting was that he pushed her away. He stood up for our relationship, told her he didn�t love her in that way and that it could not work between them. He left her to go home and I talked to him that night. He was sad but relieved things had gone OK. He told me to have fun. It was Over he would be seeing his friend in Ct the next night.

Saturday morning I got an email from Walter. Had I seen Mary, did I know where she was? She had told him she would meet him after work on Friday, after going out with her friends. She was supposed to be there at 11 to pick him up. He waited at Applebee�s until they kicked him out at 2am. He had to leave his license because he had no money. He had to call his father to get him. He thought she was in a crash. She never met her friends.
I told Steve all of this over the phone and then in email. Looking back I feel I should not have, but what else could I do? Steve was the last to see her.

This is where the lies really start and I do not know Steve�s truth from Steve reality. I now that he at some point on Saturday got a hold of Mary and that she came over. What he told me he was doing was going to Springfield to see his friend from NY. I found out later that he did not see her. That was a lie to me. What he did do that night I am not sure of. When we talked on the phone he was happy and excited and he said his friend from NY was fun but annoying and that the restaurant in Springfield was crowded. I know he was with Mary then but I do not know the truth of what they did. Nor do I know when they decided to run away. I do know that over the next few hours they made plans.

They packed a few things, they bought toiletries, and they died Steve�s hair. They had sex in our bed and on the couch and perhaps other places. I am not sure. They concocted an elaborate plan to get me my car and to �explain� themselves. Mary was not as thoughtful as Steve. She took the only transportation that she and Walter had. She took all of his money and his guitar. She sent him a 2-line email saying that it was over, but not explaining anything.
Steve was odd on the phone on Sunday. I thought he was sad about Mary, worried about her. I told him to keep calling her, trying to find her. Making sure she was OK. I was worried too. He said he had not heard from her. He told me he would be at the airport, that he could not wait for me to get home (this was hard later, remembering those three conversations � him saying he could not wait for me to get home and me thinking then it was because he missed me, but then realizing it was because he wanted me to find out and for him to stop talking to me like nothing was wrong). There are two details I must mention here. They are probably not important but I think of them now and wonder if I had a clue and did not know it. At 3:03 Sunday morning I woke up crying. I wanted to email Steve or call home, I wanted to go to the airport or have him come get us. But I told myself I was being silly and to just forget it and enjoy my sister's company. At 3:03 that afternoon I began to panic. I am not sure why. I thought I was nervous to get to the airport, but looking back I wonder if it was more. Our plane was really late and when we finally landed I got a text message from Steve. It just said that there was a problem and that I was to get my car at school and gave me instructions on how to do that. I passed out. They wanted to call the hospital. My sister was worried, confused. Made jokes. Did not know whey Steve was not coming to pick us up. Just thought he was too nervous to drive in the airport. Our cab driver was Ben Franklin. He kept me from screaming the whole way to the car. The car had an ID and note in the gas cap. The key to the car was in his office, but not HIS office the outer office. This caused me anguish. His office was dark and locked and it was final, just like I felt. I died a bit when I saw that. Almost passed out again. I gave my sister the note and she read it to herself as we walked back to the car. She cried like I was crying, hurting for me and for what was done. She asked if she could drive but neither of us knew what to do. I almost didn�t make it home. If she had not been there I would have killed myself.

Getting home was the worst thing. Things were packed the bed was unmade. I could smell where they had had sex. He washed the sheets and the cover to the bed. I found a dread lock of hers in our room. I found her hair in my towel. I could see their trash. I could see the things he left including his bass. I could not make out what he took. But it seemed to me he took nothing except things he could sell later if he had too. I had been up since three on Sunday and now it was 11pm. I was so worried. I did not have Walters phone number but I emailed him and asked him to call. He was so upset. I was so upset. I stayed up for nearly 48 hours panicking, not knowing anything reading and rereading that note and catching words here and there.

That fist night I just texted and called his phone and sent him emails. I did not tell anyone but Walter. It wasn�t until 7am Monday morning that I called his brother. And then started emailing and calling everyone I thought he might get into contact with. I was so afraid he was manic. That he would do something. It was a classic manic episode. This very one was written out in an essay online. A man described how his wife did the very same thing. Seemed completely sane but had done all of this elaborate planning and left him at the airport and drive around the country pretending to be someone else. Everyone told me to call the police, but I did not want to. Steve loved me. He would not leave me and he would not hurt Mary or do anything crazy. But I thought he would not leave too so I was confused. Hurt. Unsure. Who was this man, did I even know him? What was he doing and where was he?

Things get foggy here on Monday because of all of the crying and worry and lack of sleep. I will try to say what I did and in what order things happened, but I honestly could have strangled someone and not remembered because I was insane with grief. My mother said it was like I was dieing a little at a time starting with the place in my heart and body and mind where Steve could hurt me worst and extending out from there. Cells slowly sloughing off not to be reborn. I spent all of my time walking around the house with both my cell phone and regular phone in my hands. I checked my email all of the time. I called people. I was like a shell only worried about one thing� contact. I did not get it. I got contact through others, but not directly, it is the cruelest way. The most painful thing anyone can do to you. They said they loved you, but can�t respect you enough to call you. Or was it fear. What did he have to fear from me? Anger? > I wasn�t angry. I was sad. I was anguished. I was broken. Did he fear what he had done? What it was doing to me? Did he fear guilt? How could he not know that after all of these years, this would destroy me? I was angry on Monday. Angry that he wasn�t honest with me. But anger was long gone and all that was left was destruction. Perhaps he hoped for that. Was he trying to be mean? He kept saying it was better for him this way that the supportive way had been painful for both of them in his last marriage. But I think he thought only of himself in this one. He did not remember that I was a person. His Ex called and emailed. He had called her on Sunday. She told me she was so sorry. That this was the cruelest way to break something off. That once Steve made up his mind, no one could talk him out of if. That had never been the case with us. But here I was, on her side, with her hurt. She was still sore after all of this time and he had done it the hard way with her. But both she and I agreed. This was much more hard and cruel. This was inexcusable. But Still I was not angry. I only wanted him safe and home and in contact. I was not even angry with Mary. I knew that if something was wrong and he crashed, she would not be able to figure out what to do.

Even today, 1 week later. I still worry. Still hope he will call and come home. I love him so much and need him and perhaps it is stupid, but I know this would make our relationship so much stronger and give us that connection he so desperately wanted. The one he thought he lost with me. The truth is, he hasn�t. It is still here. I am still here and I love him. I will write more details about the rest of the days, but this is all I can do for now.

Steve, if you read this. Come home. Call home. Start over, but with me. Don�t do what you think you need to do. DO what you want to do, in your heart. Take me along with you on this ride. This is what I am here for. What I was created to do. Take this to the next level. Don�t hide in your head and in Mary�s arms. If this is really not about her like you said and if this is really something you need to do, then it is unfair to bring her along. You have lied to her too and she is lying to you. Don�t make her sadder. Her life has been hard. Be honest. Look at her and look at what you are doing. Could it possibly be the right thing?

I love you. Come home.

Remember � this is Sunday and the story is not even 1/4 told nor is it finished. The bottom line is that I love you Steve and I want you to come home. To talk to me. To make things right

I was asleep for less then 1/2 an hour when I started having a dream that hands were holding me to the bed. I tried to yell and actually I woke up a little and could hear myself yell, but the hands kept holding me, the arms wrapping around me.

My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry

Something will have to change soon - I can't keep this up

I still jump up and run to the window whenever a car goes by, and I know they are nowhere near here. They are in a different state, mentally and physically - sowhy do I hope?

So many feelings thoughts and emotions. It's hard to just be me right now. I can't sleep or eat. I have a hard time being out and a harder time being in. I want to get out of bed and I want to stay in bed. I want to do something crazy and I want to do nothing at all.

You can understand what this is like, I know you can.

Why does it have to be so hard?

They have stolen sleep from me

I finlly went to bed at 3am - only to be awakend just now by this dream:

I am at work, stnding inline for a meeting that has food. Doc is making fun of me, teasing me in a good natured way. I get into line with him and then notice steve is not getting food.

Where is steve? I say. Everything gets dark and Doc says - He's in church. THen Mary runs thorugh the building and I try to follow, but there are students in the way and i can't get to her and I cy so hard and scream so loud that I wake myself here in our bed alone after only 2 hours and 20 minutes of sleep.

My sister told me yesterday - you haven't stopped crying since Sunday, I am afriad for you, do you need a doctor. I don't know, I think I do, I am broken

It would have been less painfulk almost any other way.

You know, he did take off once, at work. He got upset over something and never showed up to a meeting. I had no idea where he was, I just got a tearful message that I could not understand. He had driven somewhere, was thinking things over, doing something not drastic, I am still in control he said.

I am so scared

This is why I can't sleep

My sister and I were trying to watch Howls Moving Castle to get my mind off things

I wrapped the blanket around me and closed my eyes. I must have been asleep but the dream, so real and so scary. I was in my bosses office and trying to talk to a coworker about a problem he is having.

Suddenly I just started to leak blood from my mouth and eyes and he handed me a tissue. I tried to pretend nothing was wrong but it just keep happening, then I got really scarred that I ways dying and tried to excuse myself without giving a clue, but I started to cry really hard and scream and everything was getting black - then I was actually awake, with my sister touching my leg asking me if I was OK. I had been crying in my sleep and was yelling

and my heart was pounding and I was so scared. Will this just keep getting worse like this? What is happening to me?

I feel so many things it is hard to pick them out into one emotion. Mostly I am sad and desperate.

I don't know how a person can do this to another

The foundation of our relationship is communication and he is cut that off totally

I have never been without talking to him for this long. It is ripping me apart. I feel like not even the same person I was. I am so little now, in so much pain. I shake and am unsure. I cry all of the time. Will this get any better? Please, don't leave me this empty shell. Fill me again. Make me whole like I was with you.

You don't have to choose at least don't choose for me

I have slept about 8 hours since Sunday. I keep waking up hoping I can cuddle up next to him and hug him and have him hug me. My heart beats to hard in my chest. It hurts so much and everything is empty. This is worse then death would be. Worse then anything I have ever had to go through.

When my first husband and I divorced it was all about stuff and I was very very angry. But I have none of that anger. I don't care about any of the stuff. I just want him. I would literally drop everything and drive to where he is if he would just tell me. I don't care about money or bills or stuff or work or school or anything.

This is the most important, us, him. Please call me. Don't hide. Tell me everything is for the best and help me get through this. You are the only one who really knows me Robot. You are the only one I have ever shown myself to.

You know me, I wake up happy in the morning, ready to get us up and out and into the world, supporting and helping us. But I have not smiled since Sunday. I have not felt like life was worth going on with. The sun is not a friend, it just means one more day without you.

Please lessen this hurt, help me stop the pain

Oh Robot, I love you so much

I get the urge to text you about 600 times a day. Should I keep doing this or is it making you mad? Are you ignoring all of the emails and texting? Do you wish I would just go away? I can't go away. You have unfinished business. You can't expect the rest of us to dissapear just because you want to.

Dr. Gault said to me today (I went to see him after he called to see how I was doing) that reality would set in for you. The reality of what a good relationship and life actually is. Do you know he has had hundreds of bi-polar patients over the years and I was the ONLY spouse who ever cared to come in to an appointment. That was shocking, but see where it got me. I hope that the reality is soon. I miss you so much. I know you want adventure, but does it have to be without me?

Mary - bring him home or at least let us make a home

I just woke up from a dream where you and I were in a car and e started to crash. My sister was in the back seat. The car spun round and roun and went up on its end a little, we grabbed hands and whispered "I love you". When the car stopped spinning we were in a school with books everywhere. My sister started to pick up the books and you held me.

Then the train whistle sounded and I realized I was awake and crying

Today has been so hard

So many things have happend over the last few days

Here is something I wrote about it

And then there were two

Two couples meet. Man woman. Man woman. There was a connection. Artistic, spiritual and emotional understanding of the way we all were. We held it in check, all of us. We knew that we wanted more, more intimacy more connection. But sought it in our own partners first. Then two, closer, crossing boundaries seeing only the possibility and not the pain. It could have been any combination of two out of the four � the connection was that strong. But the two did not bring the other two, the left over two, along on their ride. Oh, one of them tried. Telling the woman she loved her and wanted to be her wife. But in the end fate chose for them and Man woman, Man woman was switched and it became Man woman and the two that were left.

Now the Man woman travel with a car full of memories and heads full of nothing. Future is future and past is left behind in the houses they once knew and in the empty hulls of the people they said they loved. Selfish passion for themselves keeps them driving, searching for that mythical new life when in reality they could have had it all along. If they had given it a full chance, who knows what beauty could have come with four, but they forced and fled and left the two broken. Why so many lies when the truth was all anyone wanted? Now Man woman are seeking their own truth while the two are left only with reality. Houses filled with stuff that meant nothing to any of them. Hearts and bodies wanting the comfort the Man woman now share with each other. None of us can go back and because of the lies none of us can move forward.

Man woman, tell the truth, stand up, be honest. Face us and your past or your new future will be nothing but the emptiness you are trying to flee. You might be able to wrap this in a pretty bow and store it somewhere, but it will remain in a dark recess, inside you pulsing and yearning and growing until you crash and it suffocates you. What will come of your union except sadness if it is not cleaned and purified? Rumi said the breeze cleans your eye as you face west and travel into your new life, but only if you leave a clean wake. With out that the west never gets any closer

In measuring for the fence I remember my father pacing off the length of a field.

Daddy, are your feet a foot long, I asked, looking down at my own 6 year old nubs

No, he said

But he never came up short or long. The acre was always the acre

Mile after mile he would plow. Lines and turns in the new black soil

I think he still walks the land. Measuring each section. Contemplating what to plant.

Did the farming make him a quiet man, or was he quiet because he farmed. People who work with the land must listen to it, hear its secrets. He was good at knowing each field�s desires. This made him good with people too. He listened and they talked. Talked until they felt that Richard knew everything about them and in knowing them, they knew him. But only the land knows my father. Just as now, he is in tuned to it; interned in it,

Ahhh - no posts since November - what writer I am

I thought I'd post my final essay for my masters degree - which I will be receiving next Sunday the 8th. Yup - I'll be a master

The context is that we had to write a 10 page paper on our "experaince" at Goddard using at least a few of the books we had read over the past two years

Read the essay and enjoy

Post Cards From the Convergence


Crystal Springs, July 13th, 1987

Mom,

You dropped me off, then they opened the store and I bought this post card and some gum. This is the lake. We get to swim tomorrow.

Edrie

I went to camp a few of times as a kid and the part of it that frightened me most was having to share a room, or worse yet, a bunk bed with a stranger. It wasn�t like I wasn�t used to sharing. I shared a room with my sister when we were both in single digit years. For the most part sharing with her was okay, but at times that sharing involved a carefully thought out line of dirty clothes down the middle of the room or fights about who had to clean what. I remember when I finally got my own room after my brother went away to college, that I couldn�t sleep very well for days and I would sneak back to my old room and creep in and watch to see if my sister was having the same problem. She never was. I think she was more than glad to be rid of me. But camp was a whole different story. I was painfully shy and prone to wetting the bed so I coached myself the whole drive there on choosing the bottom bunk and obsessed about getting there early enough to choose but late enough to not be the first kid. Camp turned out to be all right, I always got a bottom bunk since bottom bunks weren�t cool and I didn�t drink any water the whole time so I never wet the bed. The part I didn�t consider was the fact that I might actually make friends. I was so focused on the frightening aspect of camp that I never thought about how good it could turn out or how fun it could be.
It was the same for me when applying to graduate school. I focused on the amount of work I would have to do, the time commitment I would have to make, the amount of money it would cost. Basically, I focused on all of the negatives and coached myself on how to get through them. Even when I finally chose a graduate school, all I could think about was the fact that I might not fit in. That if I didn�t choose the right advisor, I might not learn what I hoped to learn or finish what I hoped to finish. And when I found out that during the residency I would have to share a room with a stranger, it brought camp right back to me and although I didn�t really have to worry about wetting the bed anymore, I was worrying about when and where I could get dressed and if I snored and if she would want to talk to me or if she would ignore me. In fact, I was so preoccupied with sharing a room that I forgot to consider the fact that I might learn a great deal at the residency, I might make friends, and it might change my life.

Goddard, January 5th, 2004
Hey You,

I�m going to write you a post card every day that I�m here. Email too. You�ll get the email before this, but you�ll think this is cuter. This is a mountain, I might snowshoe later.

Me

Goddard was rather a leap for me. I was used to excelling in traditional educational models where grades ruled and my near perfect SAT�s and 4.0 GPA was hard and respected data. When presented with Goddard�s alternate model where grades seemed to be subjective and achievement was not measured on a 4-point scale, I was skeptical. I had gone to the �Get to Know Goddard Day� the previous July and listened to Paul explain the Goddard educational philosophy to a large group of very disparate people. He noted that we were adults. We all wanted to be here. We were all ultimately responsible for our actions and or products and with the help of Goddard, not only would we get an actual MFA but we would also learn a great deal about writing, about each other and about ourselves. I was interested mainly because it sounded like it could be extremely focused but still challenging. And I am always interested in meeting all kinds of different people. But I was not totally convinced. Without grades, how would we know how well we had done? After his scripted talk, he went outside to one of the picnic tables to smoke. A group of us followed him out, at a distance of course, as Paul is rather intimidating. He sat down and noticed us milling about and motioned us over. I sat next to him while he chain-smoked, preparing for the next lecture and tour of campus. One of the others asked him question after question about the academics and the advisors and the requirements and after a few careful answers Paul told him that really the most important thing at Goddard was the writing. Your novel, your play, your poem. Everything else builds towards and off of your writing and how to make it better. None of the other programs I had visited ever talked about what you as a writer wanted to accomplish. They talked only about the classes you could take and the professors you�d be working with. Even in Iowa, it was more about the who rather than the what. My desire was to write and write well. I wanted to get those stories inside of my head out on to a page in such a way as to allow their full potential to shine. Goddard was right for me. I was completely focused on getting in and working hard, but that didn�t mean that I wanted to share a bunk bed.

Goddard, January 6th, 2004 6:41am
Good Morning You,

Day 2 is here. It�s 6:41 right now. I�ve been awake off and on all night. Finally gave up sleep and took a shower (a nice long one) at 6am. The woman next door, whom I told you was crying, is really sick, I am staying well away from her. She is coughing like she has TB. It only occurred to me this morning to offer her some cold medicine (cause I brought some, after Spain, you NEVER know!)

My roommate is very into schedules, wanting to know when I sleep and get up etc. I think she hasn�t ever had a roommate or even a boyfriend before. Though she is nice enough (tall thin and pretty in the way that one might say Shannon Dougherty is pretty). Did I already mention she works at MIT. She is managing editor for the tech journal there.

I met some nice people at the first event last night. It was basically a mini-intro to Goddard and a get to know the other new students. I think my advisor might be Sarah Schulman. Look her up on Amazon. We aren�t supposed to know who our advisors are yet, but she came up to me last night, looked at my name tag and said �You�re Sarah. You�re mine. See you tomorrow.� Scary. One of the advisors I met is named Rachel, but she was clearly a Ralph or Ray at some point. I spent a long time talking to her, she is really into experimental fiction and other odd forms of writing, she kept mentioning people you liked to read and was impressed when I mentioned some too. Thanks for preparing me so well!

Luv Me

Sarah Schulman was indeed my first advisor, and although I was frightened of her reputation, I was excited to be pushed into writing better. I didn�t know, however, just how much of a push I would be getting. At our first meeting she asked me what I liked to write. Creative Nonfiction was my answer. I had come to Goddard hoping to put a memoir together of all of the pieces I had written on my family. Sarah shook her head and tapped her pen. �No, you�ll be writing a novel, tell me what it�s about.� Perhaps it was her reputation, or her lack of any sort of smile but I was convinced she must know what she was talking about. I considered nothing but the fact that she saw a novelist in me. What was my novel about? did I have one? She looked at me still tapping her pen and there it was, my novel, on the spot. Plot and characters unfolded in 3.2 minutes, and so began The Porcelain Pig. The details have changed over the two years it took me to write but the theme has remained the same. I am confident I never would have written a novel had Sarah Schulman not told me too and although it took me a long time to be convinced of this, I now know her parting words were true. �Writing a novel will be good for you.�

Goddard, January 6th, 2004
Hey You,

Did you know I�m writing a novel � or at least I�m going to. I�ll explain more later. Pet Ghia for me. Kisses

Me

That few minutes of one on one meeting with Sarah didn�t just change the direction of my writing, but it set into motion my Goddard experience as a whole. In my advising group were two other women who also came to write creative nonfiction and were also told they would be writing novels. This created a bond for us that has grown, flourished and blended a few more people into the fold. At first we called ourselves Sarah�s Bitches, meaning we would now clearly be doing Sarah Schulman�s bidding, but that name fell away as the fold grew larger. Now we are just a close-knit group of friends who share success and failure, funny advisor comments, and a passion for wine every night of the residency. We are a convergence of souls.

Goddard, July 3rd, 2004 6:04am
Good Morning You,

Boy is it weird to be back here! That �schedule� girl that was my roommate last semester is back, but I think she hates it and is planning to quit. I have Erin for my roommate this time (the girl from my advising group I was telling you about).

Did you know that Chrissy (Sarah S�s advisee as well), me, and Erin all read I, The Divine last semester? It was my favorite book and we spent the whole first night talking about it with this girl Lori who is a G2 poet (and Chrissy�s roommate). When I told you that book changed my life, you laughed but I told them that and they didn�t. They all agreed it was eye opening and brilliant. See, you should read it!

I don�t think I�ve ever found a place to be me before. It�s weird being an outsider your whole life and then stumbling on a place filled with people like you.

I met my new advisor Maud. She seems nice and her book is really beautiful. I hope she likes my book. (Did you see that I have a �book�!)

Luv Me

My advisor for my second and third semester was Maud Casey. She was not the scary and demanding Sarah Schulman. Maud was patient and warm; her comments were helpful and direct but always tough and focused. She took what was a haphazard collection of pages loosely tied together with a theme and made it into a real book. By the end of my third semester I felt as if I had written an actual book that someone might someday read, and I could not have gotten there without Maud. She also helped me find some of the books that most influenced my writing. The first was A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami. I had never read Murakami before, so it was rather a shock to read something where the characters were so real that it seemed like memoir but the situations were so bizarre, it seemed like fantasy. I tired to incorporate his ideas into the narrative of my novel. I was also very fond of American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. Everything about that book is creepy in the extreme, but the character is never portrayed as creepy in any way. He seems normal to all of his friends and even to his own internal monologue. But that supposed normalcy thinly masks horrific tendencies to violence. Since I always wonder how people become the kinds of people who do awful things, it was a great study in character verses circumstance and what comes of that.
My third semester came to be a defining moment in my Goddard career. Not only did I complete a first draft of my novel, but I also faced one of my greatest fears next to wetting the bed at camp, teaching. I knew that a teaching practicum was a part of the Goddard curriculum from the beginning, but had shoved that fact to the back of my mind until the residency prior to the second semester when I took the Teaching Practicum workshop. I am not sure why I always feared teaching except that perhaps I never felt I had anything to teach. How would I teach writing to anyone when I wasn�t even sure I knew what writing was? The setup and execution of the practicum was as much work as the actual classes and the essay I had to write about the experience. I greatly admire anyone who teaches for a living.
I had decided that since I would have to do this practicum that I would go home to North Dakota and do a class for the community. The class turned out well but the big moment was actually writing the essay. Tying all of my feelings for home together with my feelings for my father and how those two things actually led me into higher education in the first place changed the way I looked at the practicum. Writing that essay even transformed my novel as I added present circumstances to allow the main character, Grace, and the father character time together that I never had with my father. This made me think even harder about what I was trying to do with the novel I was writing. What did I actually want to say with these characters? I think the first paragraph from my teaching essay says a lot about the direction I finally decided to go in with The Porcelain Pig:
Some memories are close to the surface; others are buried deep within the fabric folds of past experience. For me the memories that are most close to the surface are those of my father. He is with me wherever I go. He offers comfort, reminds me of my manners, councils me when I need guidance. He is vivid within me and, when I write stories about him, vivid on the page. For when we write about those who are gone they are recreated there, in those lines, in that story. Their spirit�s living through memory. We have the power to keep the old young. We have the power to relive the good and to learn from the bad. We have the power to raise the dead with words.

Perhaps the characters in my novel were never real people but parts of them are made up of real experiences. Everything I write is informed and molded by my experiences. More of myself is in my novel then I ever thought possible and more of Goddard is in me then I ever imagined.
Home, June 25th, 2005 9:10pm

Hello Ladies!!!!

Just a few short hours and we�ll all be back together in lovely Hollister drinking that case of the Three Buck Chuck I just bought. If you need me to bring anything else, just let me know. I have a station wagon after all.

I requested Alison Smith for my advisor and Rebecca for my second reader. I hope that all works out. The book is done but it needs a tough edit or ten.

I can�t believe this is going to be our last real residency. Let�s stay up late every night, have slumber parties in our PJ�s, and read each others fortunes. I�ll try not to be sad until it is actually over. Can�t wait to see you all!

Edrie

Semester four has been tough. It�s not the paper work or the process paper or the rewriting but the bi-polar emotions of being almost done and being excited by the prospect of graduation and being almost done and being very sad at the prospect of moving on from an unexpectedly wonderful experience. I read a statistic somewhere that after a person turned thirty the number of true friends they will make in the rest of their lives is exactly 1/10 of the number of close friends they had made up until that point. Since it was always hard for me to make friends and after hearing that I figured I had the couple of friends that I had and that I had and that was it. Perhaps people stop taking chances after a certain age and that severely limits their friend potential but I took a chance and Goddard rewarded me with the kinds of friends I had never had. People with whom I shared common interest and understanding. People from all over the world that were open to chance and open to me.
The theme of being open to new things is even stronger in the fourth semester because for the first time my novel was read and critiqued by people who had not seen it in anything but its current first-draft state. I had to be open to any possibility from complete loathing to laughter and everything in between. I was scared of what criticism might come because the reputation of my second reader was that of one who was extremely tough and known to not like the kind of subject matter I was attempting. And my advisor was an unknown quantity. I had lucked out with Maud, but would Alison be a lucky break as well?
What I�ve come to expect from Goddard is the unexpected. Everything I feared in the criticism of the novel came to pass but not in the way I expected it. Rebecca was indeed tough to the point of pain, but her comments helped boost me into changes I would not have considered and, since I had enough time to do some revising before I sent the novel to Alison, made a better first draft for her to critique. In the weeks that I waited for Alison�s comments I fretted about the changes I had made and if she would agree with Rebecca in some of the more harsh assessments. I obsessively checked the mail almost from the day I sent the packet and was rewarded finally with some of the most thoughtful and encouraging comments I had received during my time at Goddard. Alison had taken great pains to be meticulous and tough while also respectful. Her comments gave me the courage to tackle the seemingly impossible task of starting a second draft when all I wanted to do was put the novel away and forget about it for a while.

Crystal Springs, July 21st, 1987

Mom,

Could you be late picking me up? My friend Russell has to stay longer �cause his mom can�t come from Fargo until she gets off work. We made a big fire last night and sang and this girl said I had hair the same color as the fire. See you � but late OK.

Edrie

Although Graduation is a few months off, I am already worried about what it will be like without Goddard. It sounds silly, but Goddard provided a framework for me to grow into being a writer. My novel is done enough for me to graduate, but it won�t be the end. I know that there is still work to do and I have set a few goals for myself to help keep me focused even without the structure that Goddard provided. Once I graduate I plan on soliciting feedback from a few people I know in the publishing industry, hoping for a referral to a good agent who could possibly sell this book. I have also started sketching out ideas for three other books. At this moment they are all nebulous but the very fact that I have these ideas down will force me to explore them and to make them into something more. I�ve written one novel and I know I can write more. I was always able to write but Goddard, my advisors and my friends allowed me to take that knowledge and internalize it. In fact, I didn�t even call myself a writer until my second semester. When people ask me what I do, I used to tell them that I sometimes write. Now when people ask I tell them, I�m a writer. There is a fundamental difference and that change occurred because of Goddard. Goddard, like camp, was frightening at first and my focus was on the negative. But a shift occurred and I knew that I would complete my requirements and get through the rough parts. I was able to focus on the good and enjoy my experience. I want to graduate and am looking foreword to it, but if I could be picked up just a little late, have just a few extra hours � I wouldn�t mind.

161 this morning - though it could be bunk because my scale is broken...


1 yogert
1/2 C wheateis

Why?

For my final semester (yup the next one is the FINAL ONE!!!) we have to do an annoatated bibliography of 10-15 titles that most shapped our writing over the course of study. Here is what I came up with so far.

Annotated Bibliography
Short list of primary influences spanning four semesters


Rabih Alameddine. I, The Divine. New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 2001.

A juxtaposition of form against content is how Alameddine experiments in I, the Divine. By giving the reader successive first chapters in a supposed failed attempt by the subject and fictitious author, Sarah Nour el-Din to write her memoir, Alameddine gives the reader a cunning story within a story while propelling the novel with partially revealed substance. I, the Divine subtly states information by mentioning items in one chapter, but leaving them out in the next. However, even though this information is missing, the reader is still aware of the prior chapters, which leads to a deeper understanding of the novel.
These successive first chapters successfully weave content through the form allowing the reader to gather meaning while still being confronted with new substance. Propelled by substance yet immersed on form I, the Divine is a perfect balance of a story within a story.
I, the Divine has to be one of my favorite books of all time. The character is impossibly real and even though I don�t like the main character that much I kept reading. I am really going to think about the human details of this book when I do future writing and rewriting on mine.

Aimee Bender. An Invisible Sign of my Own. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 2001.

Creating empathy for a character is essential to allowing the reader to understand how the character is interacting with the world. In An Invisible Sign of my Own, Aimee Bender takes a socially and personally flawed character and creates a sense of empathy for the reader that allows them to judge the situation the character is in by the scope of what the character must be feeling within that given scenario.
I love the way she takes something as bizarre as incessant knocking and makes it an endearing character trait. It is quite a talent to be able to get inside the head of that kind of person and then to further be able to make you empathize with them. It is a little bit like what David Sedaris does in his memoirs; the taking of the trait and exposing it for the purposes of exposing the character. He does his in a humorous way but Bender does it in a way that allows the reader to see a little bit of his or her own neuroses.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear (t), Larissa Volokhonsky (t). Notes From Underground. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.

The difference between definition and description in regards to the protagonist and narrator the Underground Man is an interesting quandary to explore in Notes from Underground. When pointing out the differences between the definition and description shown by the narrator, the reader gets a sense that the reliability of the narrator in summarizing his own life (at least in the context of providing a definition of himself) can be called into question.
What is clear is that as unreliable in description as the Underground Man may be, it is clear that the subtly between his definition of himself and how he describes himself is meant as a way for the reader to be brought into the distinctions without the narrator having to write a clear roadmap to his life.
Notes from Underground was interesting. I read it while on tour with RobotZen in Budapest and in Slovakia. I kept wondering what it would be like to read it in Russian. It would take me years probably but it might be worth it to see. Not that just reading it in Russian would give me the full story. It�s one of those books where you have to read everything he was reading at the time to be able to get the full story. He makes so much of the culture then too which I was at a distinct disadvantage for. Though I hear that the translation I choose is one of the best. All in the eye of the beholder I suppose.

Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.

The absolute center of this novel resides in the subtlety of the choices between bone, eggshell, and off-white. Seemingly, small differences in the color, shape or style of an object (in this case business cards) have large differences in perceived value by the main character Patrick Bateman and his over-consumptive cohorts. Everything from the appearance (but not the taste) of a plate of sushi to the maker of a particular suit are discussed and coveted if correct and scorned if they are even slightly off. Parts of the book are written almost in the style of a journal chronicling the main character�s obsession with perfection. Lists of the places he goes and the branded things he has, wears and eats dominate the flat fatalistic first-person narrative. They serve to remind the reader that the goal of this character is to consume. But not just to consume any type of good or service, but the very best good or service. This consumption holds equally true for the people in Pat Bateman�s life as it does for the ODM II music system with dynamic tuning or the six button wool and silk blend navy suit jacket by Zenga paired with charcoal grey pressed Ralph Lauren pants and a spread-collar pencil-striped Sea Island cotton French cuffed Polo shirt.
I was really excited to write about this book because the character is so rational about his actions that he doesn�t even think they are unusual, It is just a part of him to do this and the way that is portrayed in the book is chilling. If I ever wrote a psychological mind-fuck I would want it to be much like this book where the character seems totally �normal� but the reality is that they are deeply disturbed.

Ron Hanson. Mariette in Ecstasy. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.

Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen is more of a narrative poem than a novel. The unusual format and structure does not distract but rather further enhances the reader�s ability to derive meaning from the physical and spiritual symbolism that abounds within the construct of the story. The story is written in such a way as to leave spaces inside the narrative for the reader to contemplate. Much like the hours of silent contemplation and prayer scheduled within the daily tasks of a nun, Hansen schedules time and space to allow the reader brief moments of respite in order to allow them the fully contemplate the meanings of the symbols presented. The two main types of symbols presented within the work are physical and spiritual.
This novel allows both the physical and spiritual symbols the freedom to create a story within a story and allows the reader space and time to contemplate their meanings. Without its poetic style, the book may well lose those quiet moments of contemplation and force the reader out of the story much like Mariette was forced out of her physical symbol for consecration.
Do I believe she had the stigmata? That is an interesting question because it never occurred to me to make the choice to either believe or not believe her. Perhaps that is my failing but I assumed that she believed she had it when it was necessary for her to. I also think that the people around her either thought she had it or didn�t because of their own feelings rather than any reality. What I really felt was that it didn�t matter if the stigmata were the truth or not. It was about the perception like religion in general.


John Irving. The World According to Garp. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 2000.

When analyzing what makes The World According to Garp an interesting and appealing piece of fiction, one must look at three distinct features of the book. Although quite dense and packed-in, the language of the book is both simple and relatively straightforward. This treatment allows the reader to easily harmonize with the story. Another aspect that allows harmony is the characterization, most specifically that of Garp himself. He starts out unborn and develops through the book into an everyman character. He speaks directly to the reader through bits of text straight from the story. In addition, Garp is easy to relate to, as he is not particularly naturally good at anything. The third aspect that bears analysis has to do with structure. The linear nature of the book brings the reader through the story easily. It allows the reader to live right alongside Garp from his zygote history all the way through adulthood.
Oh John, tell me about your life. Oh wait, never mind, ya did� Ok, maybe Irving wasn�t conceived through the rape of a comatose man by his �feminist� mother, but there are parallels!
Have you ever read what Joseph Heller said about Something Happened? After working on it for 10 years he was quoted in a NY Times article as saying something like;
�I�m about 200 pages in and it�s about this guy, but I don�t know much about him. I know he has a job but I don�t know what it is or what he does. He has this family, but I don�t really know who they are or where they live. I don�t even know his name. He just goes to work and comes home. That�s about all.�
Not that I am comparing my writing in anyway to his, (lord no!) but I do know how he feels!
This one from The World According to Garp was good too:
�He tried to write a story about a family; all he knew when he began was that the family had an interesting life and the members were all close to each other. That was not enough to know.�

Franz Kafka, Donna Freed (t). The Metamorphosis. New York, NY: Fine Creative Media, 2003.

Would a book about a man turning into an insect be considered science fiction? Perhaps if it was written by any other author than Kafka it might be, but The Metamorphosis is more a reality play based on the contents of Kafka�s life than a work of fiction, science or otherwise. The style of this book epitomizes Kafka's general writing style. Even with perfect realism and attention to every detail of life, it is common to find impossible situations as the center of Kafka�s stories. A man turning into an insect transforms from a mere surreal story to a work about the interactions of people and the psychology of living. His detailed account and down to earth style seems to ground the story in reality, heading off any talk of the possibly this story was a dream. Even with these details, the actual bones of the story could not have happened in reality. This juxtaposition of reality verses the fantastical forces the reader to look for deeper meanings within the story.
I love when bizarre things happen and the reader is expected to take them for granted. Of course a man could turn into an insect! Of course it would seem odd but not something to report to medical science, but rather something to have on Springer. Life often feels just like this book!

Maxine Hong Kingston. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.

Maxine Hong Kingston�s The Warrior Woman is commonly classified as a memoir, however it does not take the traditional memoir track. The book instead intersperses stories as remembered by the narrator, myths and legend reinterpreted by her, and family history that is as much fiction as it is fact. Many aspects of Kingston�s childhood contribute to this unconventional style of narrative, not the least of which is her second-generation immigrant status. That status causes a disconnect not only with the culture of her parents� country, but with her home country as well. This cultural separation forces Kingston to form and explore stories, myths and history within the framework of an outsider looking in. This can allow the reader greater access to the narrator and a greater understanding of the narrator�s struggles. It does serve, however, to alienate the reader as well since Kingston is the reader�s only way in to the story. Unlike most memoirs there are few occasions when she tells stories from her point of view of things that have actually happened to her.
Whether it be personal stories like that of the torture Kingston inflicted on a silent little girl; myths re-told like that of the enigmatic Fa Mu Lan; or family history that is used as a warning, Kingston weaves the layers of narrative together into a statement about her own identity as a Chinese-American. Wanting to be fully assimilated into the culture that believes achieving straight A�s is as good as avenging a village, Maxine is left in a middle place where both cultures pull on her. Not fully understanding or agreeing with her Chinese heritage but held back by it from becoming fully American, Kingston struggles to find her voice among the ghosts of both her ancestry and her present.


Toni Morrison. The Bluest Eye. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1994.

Having two forms of narration within one relatively short novel is quite a challenge for an author. However, Toni Morrison uses both first-person and third-person narration to great effect in The Bluest Eye.
Because Morrison uses multiple points of view and multiple narration styles, no one narrator is allowed to take over the story. Each is balanced and counter balanced by the next allowing no one voice to take over. Perhaps this method of multiplying narrative perspectives puts more demand on the reader to glean the real story from that of the different perspectives but it also serves to challenge the reader into active participation with the story. Using both first and third narration and switching perspectives leaves the reader feeling whole even though the characters are left searching.
The Bluest Eye was great to read. I love books that are a bit surreal without going too creepy on you. And the fact that everything seemed so inevitable was really great. Perhaps it�s the fatalist in me that enjoyed it so much.

Haruki Murakami, Alfred Birnbaum (t). A Wild Sheep Chase. New York, NY: Penguin, 1989.

Engaging characters leap off the page and directly into the imagination of the reader in Murakami�s book A Wild Sheep Chase. Wholly rooted within the context of the story but allowing enough facets to invite the reader into the dream of the text along with them and create a familiarity with the character. Murakami�s characters encompass the qualities of an everyman while allowing for supremely surprising situations to arrive and propel them within the narrative. The ostensibly simplistic character portraits within his novels allow Murakami�s readers to place themselves within the action of the book through the actions and inactions of the narrator. This representation allows the characters to live and lead on the page and within their imaginations.
The imagination of the reader as to how the character will react and to how the reader would react given the set of circumstances is as important to the story as the descriptions and characters. Simplistic but realistic portraits allow these characters to move and interact in such a way as to make the reader truly feel a part of the story rather then an outsider looking in.
The Wild Sheep Chase was so good. I wrote about the characters because they didn�t feel like characters. He has such a talent for writing real people and making their real thoughts and lives interesting. Not to mention the surreal aspect of things, which adds a whole other layer. I went out and got two more of his books to read for after the semester is over.

J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston, MA: Little Brown, 1991.

In The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger portrays a bare and open style of prose that makes the reader feel that the author is truly connecting with the scenes within the book. These connections show the author not only has a stake in the narrative and the characters, but that they are truly coming from a place of utter sincerity. This sincerity resonates with the reader and is achieved through a slow and steady unfurling of action within the narrative that shows, not only the good qualities of the character, but also his many faults.
I had never read this when I was young, though I hear from a few of my teacher friends it is basically required text in some advanced high school English classes. I thought this book was fascinating. Thinking of the history of when it was written, it must have been a huge sensation. It is so honest and cutting, and must have been one of the first books from that point-of-view. Did he invent the whole idea of young adult fiction? Though I rather disagree with categorizing like that. If something is well written it shouldn�t be pigeonholed as a �kids� book.


Constantine Stanislavski, Elizabeth Reynolds. An Actor Prepares. New York, NY: Routlegde, 1989.

I did not write an annotation on this book, but I did read it and use it as a supply of knowledge. I felt like it was a great resource for building a character form scratch. He advocates taking a simple approach. Making your characters real by being your character in that moment. I think the most vivid description was when he describes an actor playing the part of a socially anguished person. Instead of telling the actor (or in my case telling your reader) �you are socially anguished�, you simply give them a problem to solve and let both the actor and the view (in my case the character and the reader) figure out the emotion. He uses the example of a person who is nervous in social situations. When he told the actor that the character developed a tic every time a beautiful woman spoke to him, the resulting scene was forced and over wrought and the tic was entirely too noticeable. Instead, he told the actor simply. This woman is very very beautiful and you are not worthy of her. The acting in that case was more natural and fluid with the added benefit of the fact that even though the actor may not have thought to use a tic as something to show nervousness, the actor did come up with everything from a stammer to a sweaty palm etc. The actor, in that case, inhabited the character enough to make what the character would do in that situation, believable.

Robert Louis Stevenson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. New York, NY: Signet, 1987.

The main and generally accepted theme of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is that of the duality of human nature and its materialization and expression in the world of white, middle class men. Though this theme has been discussed before, one major piece of the theme is not just good verses evil but the true nature of evil itself and how the freedom and romance of it was the driving force to why Dr. Jekyll sought to split human nature in the first place.
Evil is a necessary and integrated part of the human psyche and though Stevenson did not yet have the psychological vocabulary in which to somewhat describe the root of the evil present in his common man, he does recognize its allure and presence in even the most respected of citizens. This is not a novel of good verses evil for Dr. Jekyll is not wholly good as is Mr. Hyde not wholly evil. It is a novel of how this evil is seductive and even freeing and how, perhaps, society creates a certain sense of this evil by not allowing the full nature of man to surface.
Why does Dr. Jekyll continue to allow Mr. Hyde to emerge? Perhaps the antidote does wear off or perhaps a crucial �impurity� is missing in its raw ingredients. What is more likely is that Dr. Jekyll has succumbed to the part of himself that automatically allows Hyde his freedom. His full nature, up until now suppressed within his cultural standards, will be repressed no longer and comes out in full force wising to be finally freed. Evil is a necessary and integrated part of humanity and it is not clear at the end of the book which aspect, if either, wins out but what is clear is that Stevenson�s allegory brings such struggles into focus and allows a glimpse into human nature and into evil itself.
I didn�t realize until I actually read it how different Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was from any of the movie or TV versions. It had an almost experimental feel with the way it was set up. I have to admit I really enjoyed it

Jennifer Weiner. Good in Bed. Washington Square Press, New York, NY, 2001.

In one of my other annotations I noted that honesty on the part of the writer is one of the most important elements in the crafting of an engaging story. Good in Bed seems honest to a fault. It presents a narrative by a modern-day lead character who lives much like many of my friends live. There was a connection to real-life in this book that was charming and yet had a slice of cynicism.
This book, however, taught me a valuable lesson in writing. The prose can�t just seem honest; it has to be honest to a fault. Every action and scrap of dialogue must be crafted with an eye towards realism. So much so in fact that if even one line is off, it can serve to ruin the entire book. Even one line can hold such power and sway that nothing can be just tossed off but each word must be decidedly deliberate and executed with elegance.
I simply could NOT help myself with this book. I knew it wasn�t on my list, but my husband had to have surgery and I couldn�t concentrate on the books I had brought so I bought this in the gift shop. NY Times bestseller and all and it looked like a quick read. The second I opened it I knew it was kismet that I read this book. Admittedly it�s ChickLit (by current definition, not by original definition), but what is so bad about that exactly? And this one seemed smart and funny and very well put together. The whole thing opened my eyes to the idea of truth and honesty in fiction.

One of my favorite poets (and how many people can say they have a favorite poet, muc h less more than one?) did this on his blog, so I am too <>

Here is the list of books I have read for my MFA since January 2004. I still have one sememster to go... but I might not have to read so many next semester...

List - - In order by semester:

Semester 1

Sherwood Anderson. Winesburg, Ohio. New York, NY: Bantam Books, 1995.

Carol Anshaw. Aquamarine. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1992.

Truman Capote. In Cold Blood A True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences. New York, NY: Random House, 1965.

Julio Cort�zar, Gregory Rabassa (t). Hopscotch. New York, NY: Pantheon Books, 1995.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear (t), Larissa Volokhonsky (t). Notes From Underground. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.

Ron Hanson. Mariette in Ecstasy. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.

Ann E. Imbrie. Spoken in Darkness: Small-Town Murder and a Friendship Beyond Death. New York, NY: Hyperian, 1993.

Jack Kerouac. Visions of Cody. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1972.

Maxine Hong Kingston. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.

Harper Lee. To Kill a Mocking Bird. New York, NY: Warner Books Inc., 1982

Toni Morrison. The Bluest Eye. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1994.

Carson McCullers. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. New York, NY: Modern Library, 1993.

Alice McDermott. At Weddings and Wakes. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.

Dale Peck. Martin and John. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1993.

Robert Louis Stevenson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. New York, NY: Signet, 1987.

Marilynne Robinson. Housekeeping. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001.

Richard A. Wright. Black Boy, New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1998.


Semester 2

Annotations:

Rabih Alameddine. I, The Divine. New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 2001.

Rudolfo Anaya. Bless me, Ultima. New York, NY: Warner Books, 1972.

Nina Nikoleavna Berberova, Marian Schwarts (t). The Tattered Cloak and Other Stories. New York, NY: New Directions Publishing, 2001.

Mary Caponegro. The Star Caf�. New York, NY: Scribner 1990.

Sandra Cisneros. The House on Mango Street. New York, NY: Random House, 1984.

Douglas Coupland. Shampoo Planet. New York, NY: Pocket Books, 1992.

John Irving. The World According to Garp. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 2000.

Franz Kafka, Donna Freed (t). The Metamorphosis. New York, NY: Fine Creative Media, 2003.

A.L. Kennedy. So I am Glad. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 2001.

Alice Munro. The Beggar Maid: Stories of Flo and Rose. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.

Haruki Murakami, Alfred Birnbaum (t). A Wild Sheep Chase. New York, NY: Penguin, 1989.

Walker Percy. The Moviegoer. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 1998.
Plato, Christopher Gill (t). The Symposium. New York, NY: Penguin, 1999.

Terry Ryan. The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster, 2001.

Jean Paul Sartre. What is Literature. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1989.

Colson Whitehead. The Intuitionist. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 1999.

Long Critical Paper � Poetry: Why it�s Best When it�s Spoken

Works Cited

Babette Deutsch, Poetry Handbook 4th Ed., Copyright 1981 by Babette Deutsch, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., New York, NY

Bill Moyers, The Language of Life, Copyright 1995 by Public Affairs Television, Inc., Doubleday, New York, NY

Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog From Hell, Copyright 1977 by Charles Bukowski, Black Sparrow Press, Santa Rosa, CA

Judson Jerome, The Poets Hand-Book, Copyright 1980 by Judson Jerome, F&W Publications, Inc., Cincinnati, OH

Kathleen Norris, The Virgin of Bennington, Copyright 2001 by Kathleen Norris, River Head Books, New York, NY

Robert Hass, Sun Under Wood, Copyright 1996 by Robert Hass, Ecco Press, Hopewell, NJ

Robert Pinsky, The Sounds of Poetry, Copyright 1998 by Robert Pinksy, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, NY

Sam Cornish, Cross A Parted Sea, Copyright 1996 by Sam Cornish, Zoland Books, Cambridge, MA

Sherman Alexie, The Business of Fancy Dancing, Copyright 1992 by Sherman Alexie, Hanging Loose Press, Brooklyn, NY

Works Consulted

Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi, Copyright 1995 by Coleman Barks, HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY

Coleman Barks, John Moyne, Open Secret: Versions of Rumi, Copyright 1999 by John Moyne and Coleman Barks, Shambhala Publications, Boston, MA

Catherine Sasanov, All the Blood Tethers, Copyright 2002 by Catherine Sasanov, Northeastern University Press, Boston, MA

Catherine Sasanov, What�s Left of Galgani, Copyright 2004 by Catherine Sasanov, Franciscan University Press, Steubenville, OH

Elise Paschen, Rebekah Presson Mosby (Eds.), Poetry Speaks, Copyright 2001 by Sourcebooks, Inc., Sourcebooks, Naperville, IL.

James Austin (Prod.), The Beat Generation, Copyright 1992 by Rhino Records, Rhino Word Beat, Santa Monica, CA.

Kathleen Norris, Little Girls in Church, Copyright 1995 by Kathleen Norris, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA

Lawson Fusao Inada, Legends from Camp, Copyright 1993 by Lawson Fusao Inada Coffee House Press, Minneapolis, MN

Maya Angelou, Wouldn�t Take Nothing for my Journey Now, Copyright 1993 by Maya Angelou, Random House, New York, NY

Poets & Writers, Poet as Rock Star, May/June 2001, Vol. 29 Issue 3, p. 75-79

Richard Ellmann and Robert O�Clair (Eds.), The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry 2nd Ed., Copyright 1988 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY

Richard Jones (Ed.) Poetry East, Copyright 1996 by Poetry East, DePaul University, Chicago, IL

Robert Hass, Field Guide, Copyright 1998 by Robert Hass, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT

Robert Pinsky, Maggie Dietz, Americans� Favorite Poems, Copyright 2000 by Maggie Dietz, Robert Pinksy, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY


Yeah I know I wrote my LCP on poetry even though I'm writing a novel... Closet poet...

Semester 3

Hanan Al-Shaykh. I Sweep the Sun Off Roof Tops. New York, NY: Random House, 1998.

Aimee Bender. An Invisible Sign of my Own. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 2001.

Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita. New York, NY: Vintage, 1996.

Sarah Shun-leir Bynum. Madeline is Sleeping. New York, NY: Harcourt, 2004.

Jennifer Donnelly. A Northern Light. Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 2003.

Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.

Francisco Goldman. The Divine Husband. New York, NY: Grove/Atlantic, 2004.

A.L. Kennedy. Original Bliss. New York, NY: Vintage, 2000.

Daniel Keyes. Flowers for Algernon. Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 1987.

Mark Mathabane. Kaffir Boy. New York, NY: Touchstone, 1998.

Haruki Murakami. The Elephant Vanishes. New York, NY: Vintage, 1994.

Walter Dean Myers. Fallen Angels. New York, NY: Scholastic, 1988.

Katherine Paterson. Bridge to Terabithia. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1997.

J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston, MA: Little Brown, 1991.

Constantine Stanislavski, Elizabeth Reynolds. An Actor Prepares. New York, NY: Routlegde, 1989.

John Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men. New York, NY: Penguin, 1993.

Jennifer Weiner. Good in Bed. Washington Square Press, New York, NY, 2001.



Teaching Essay � Trust

Works Cited

Cynthia Stokes Brown, Like It Was: A Complete Guide to Writing Oral History, Copyright 1988 by Cynthia Stokes Brown, Teachers & Writers Collaborative, New York, NY

Sanford Kaye, Writing as a Life Long Skill, Copyright 1994 by Sanford Kaye, Wadsworth Publishing Company, Boston, MA


Works Consulted

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, Copyright 1986 by Natalie Goldberg, Shambhala, Boston, MA

Chuck Klosterman, Fargo Rock City; A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural North Dakota, Copyright 2001 by Chuck Klosterman, Scribner, New York, NY

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Copyright 1994 by Anne Lamott, Pantheon Books, New York, NY

Patrick D. Morrow (ed), Growing up in North Dakota, Copyright 1979 by University Press of America, Inc., Washington, D. C.

Timothy Murphy, Set the Ploughshare Deep: A Prairie Memoir, Copyright 2000 by Timothy Murphy, Ohio University Press, Athens, OH

Kathleen Norris, Little Girls in Church, Copyright 1995 by Kathleen Norris, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA

Kathy L. Plotkin, The Pearson Girls: a Family Memoir of the Dakota Plains, Copyright 1998 by Kathy L. Plotkin, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND

Philo T Pritzkau, Growing Up in North Dakota: A Memoir, Copyright 1996 by Philo T Pritzkau, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND

Ron Vossler, Dakota Kraut: a Memoir, Copyright 2003 by Ron Vossler, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND

Ward Wilkins, And Some Went Hungry, Copyright 2002 by Ward Wilkins, Coon Rapids, MN

Ward Wilkins, The Blackboards Whisper, the Walls Shout! : Inside School Houses (Big and Small), Copyright 2003 by Ward Wilkins, United States

Jo Ann Winistorfer, Cathy A. Langemo, Tracing Your Dakota Roots: a Guide to Genealogical Research in the Dakotas, Copyright 1999 Dakota Roots, Bismarck, ND


Selected Workshop Readings


Hazel Grange, Live Arrival Guaranteed: a Sandhill Memoir, Copyright 1996 by Hazel Grange, Lost River Press, Boulder Junction, WI

Chuck Klosterman, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: a Low Culture Manifesto, Copyright 2003 by Chuck Klosterman, Scribner, New York, NY

Frances Mayes, Bella Tuscany, Copyright 1999 by Frances Mayes, Broadway Books, New York, NY

Kathleen Norris, Dakota A Spiritual Geography, Copyright 1993 by Kathleen Norris, Houghton Mifflin, New York, NY

Albert Tangeman Vollweiler, Roosevelt�s Ranch Life in North Dakota, Reprint from the Quarterly Journal of UND, Copyright 1918, University of North Dakota, Grandforks, ND

Larry Woiwode, Aristocrat of the West, The Story of Harold Schafer, Copyright 2000 by Larry Woiwode, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND

Web Resources

http://www.blogger.com/start
http://www.capturingmemories.com/tips.html
http://www.dakotawest.org
http://www.lakeregionwriters.bravehost.com
http://www.state.nd.us/arts
http://www.twc.org/

Here is a post for SPRING!!! Sunny and 60!!!

SOOOOO I got this cute little story published

So read my sotry and let me know what you think. Someday I might write this as a novel. What a summer that was.

Recently this woman from work read it and she was like...

Who are you again? LOL gotta love that kind of reaction

Here is how it appears

It was Shear Madness Alley

A wok full of heroin dominated the tiny but spotless stove. The kitchen was a wall at the end of the living room, separated from the rough carpet by a thin strip of scuffed beige linoleum. The whole of the apartment could be seen by standing in the corner of the kitchen. The living room was finished in an "early 90s student" sort of way, and the bathroom sat small and red behind the secret door. There were bedrooms too but that wasn�t where the action was.

Gogo laid naked on the couch in the living room in front of the large windows. She listened to the CD player that played the song that filled the apartment and played off the street sounds of Shear Madness Alley a few stories below. They were the 2am sounds, the still-partying-on-a-Saturday-morning sounds, the we�re-all-in-this-together sounds.

Slinkster was naked as well. He radiated the heat, but the ocean was responsible for the humidity. In his modesty he had donned a brown corduroy suit jacket with velour patches at the elbows. He paced the apartment with a pipe in hand, puffing rings of cerebral smoke, which hung like fine-spun cotton candy around his head. I listened to him talking, and could smell his cannabis thoughts from my hole in the bathroom. Dark and cool, the hipbath surrounded me like a slick red womb. Up to my neck, I felt like I was emerging into the world but hadn�t gotten very far. Slinkster walked into my dark layer. Through the haze he stared at his bare reflection in the mirror.

"I can�t remember, am I a dead fish or a monkey?" He looked down at me while my own pair of dead fish bobbed in the water glowing white against the red.

The French song was on repeat in the CD player. I idly wondered whether they realized it had played 47 times. It comforted my OCD; I always knew what would be and what had been. I was beginning to understand French; I was the woman in the song, a lazy 1920s diva with a cigarette holder and dainty cigarettes who expected a light from insanely beautiful young men. Gogo started to sing the love song to the Egyptian who was on the street below. Her voice husky from the haze that Slinkster was leaving everywhere. I suddenly knew that the diva wasn�t me. I was more the suitor and I longed to run from the bath to light her cigarette. But the water kept me still, chill and comforted, holding my body in place. I was too late anyway. Slinkster had heard her call and wandered over to offer her a light. Even though I could not see them, I know they gazed at one another with love and unrequited want. They knew they should fuck but never would. It wasn�t in the schema.

This summer sublet was granted through karma. I tend to browse bulletin boards at school and hanging there was a sign. Two bedrooms, furnished sublet, no cats, students welcome, Shear Madness Alley. Fate began there in that living room next to the kitchen in the wok.

Gogo�s singing blended with the French Diva�s. I could no longer tell them apart. The Egyptian was yelling from the street. Inviting her to visit his homeland. Did he come every Saturday? Perhaps he was a customer of one of the neighbors whom we heard working mostly at night. They did a big business in lonely Egyptians.

This blog is languishing a bit...

I'm not up to writing in it right now but the dancing banana below still makes me laugh!

everyone have a great mental health year please!

Silly Homeland Security

What will they think of next?

A yellow dancing banana....



Seasame street



Thank you Mistress! May I have another?

Something wrong with blog today, can't seem to post in the food blog....

WOnder if this one will work

OK it worked but 24 hours later!!!

Little redesign! What do you think?

RobotZen is back from break! Making new music and generally shaking things up!

Wow, it's been a long time since I posted here!

Since I last posted there have been many changes. GOne through some family medical issues, still on the diet but because of the aforementi9oned issues haven't lost much weight (changing that though)

I had my second residency! Very nice!

Now I am settleing back into life, let's see what it brings shall we?