For the Write Reason

New Blog, Old Look

2006-04-25T23:17:00.000-04:00

You all must check out my new blog at www.welfle.com/writereason and let me know if there is anything familiar about it.

More about Joan Didion and how she is daunting and amazing and how sometimes it seems like she's speaking right to me

2006-04-23T19:50:00.000-04:00

I was reading Joan Didion's essay "Why I Write" again tonight. She describes in it this feeling she had as an undergrad at Berkeley as "hopeless late adolescent energy," and I think I have that, too. She talks also about amateur ideas and being "interested" in things (like marine biology, or in my case, American politics). These are not issues about which we are experts, although I suspect Joan Didion knows more about marine biology than I will ever know about anything. She claims that she doesn't think in abstracts, but I think that it's all abstract in the end. She says she isn't an intellectual, that when people call her that, she reaches for her gun, but then in the next paragraph she refers to the "Hegelian dialectic" and hell if I know what is. It sure sounds intellectual to me. Anyway, she talks at the end of the essay about "A Book of Common Prayer" and the questions she has about it. There are always questions, after all. This I already knew. Then, after she explains about the questions, she tells it so well that I will just quote it:

"Let me tell you something about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel."

All Good Things...

2006-04-11T03:09:00.000-04:00

No more free Showtime.

Sleepy to IPFW

2006-04-10T22:06:00.000-04:00

I saw Liz Murray (of "Homeless to Harvard" fame) tonight and she talked a lot about the daily choice between what we're supposed to do and what we want to do. For me, this manifests itself lately between going to work and sleeping. The earliest class I have is at 3pm, and usually I'm ready to get up by then. It's not that I don't like my job. It's simple and easy and my bosses are lifelong family friends. It's an ideal situation. I honestly don't know why it's so hard for me to get out of bed and go there, but I do recognize that I am not like Liz Murray. Faced with her situation, I have no doubt that I would be dead. I don't have that internal motivation, that thing that makes you go forward. I suppose that's how I ended up at IPFW, a place even my mother puts down and calls "Bypass High." I've been making a lot of noise lately about grad school, but who knows if I'll really do it. If I manage to motivate myself to apply, that will be a major accomplishment. I can blame my thyroid and remind people that depression and fatigue are common symptoms and since Dr. Beyer took me off the medication, there is nothing standing between me and these symptoms. But the fact remains that we need money and I am so racked with guilt when I call in sick that I can't sleep anyway. If Lifetime made my life into a movie, it would be called "Sleepy to IPFW" and it would be about half an hour long and someone superglamorous would play my sister, the foil who provides the comparison so that viewers get just how stagnant I am.

If Tina Fey ruled the world...

2006-04-09T22:54:00.000-04:00

I watched "Mean Girls" tonight, and even though it was predictably predictable, it was, as everyone has told me, better than it could've been. There ends the review and begins my confusion at Rachel McAdams playing someone who is a junior in high school. Rachel McAdams is 29, and she was 27 or 28 when she made "Mean Girls," in which she plays Regina George. What made her want this role? A little imdb.com investigating yielded the info that pretty much everyone in this movie was too old for their roles. The actor playing Aaron is my age and it has been a long time since I was 17. By the by, both that guy and the actress playing Karen were on "All My Children." (Aaron was that J.R. who always needed chapstick and Karen was this girl named Joni whom Jamie dated for a summer.)

The math teacher was the best character. I don't know if it's Tina Fey or the writing but I suspect it's the former. I want to give that character her own movie. Heck, I want to give Tina Fey her own country.

All roads lead to grad school...

2006-04-06T14:28:00.000-04:00

I was struck, in the middle of the night, by the notion that I should apply to the Iowa Writers' Workshop, even if it's just wishful-thinking. I think I was inspired by Jordan getting into Stanford and Yale. The Iowa Writers' Workshop is my Yale. If I could get an MFA anywhere, it would be there, but I haven't ever said this out loud. So, in the middle of the night, I went to my laptop and googled. I discovered that my GPA is indeed high enough to get in and I also need to submit two manuscripts. I don't think I need any letters of recommendation. So I have until Jan. 3, 2007 to write something worthy to send to the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Which brings me to Mary Ann.

Iowa will accept 18 credits for transfer and I want very desperately to take more writing classes. I haven't taken one in almost two years. That's a long time to be on my own, writing duds like "Utter Despair," which I realized this morning totally sucks as a story. This fall, Mary Ann is teaching a class called "Composing the Self." It's a writing class that looks at identity. It's almost a surreal coincidence because I have recently been doing independent research on this notion, and it is a perfect way to connect women's studies and writing. If I could take one class each semester next school year, I would be better prepared mentally for an MFA program.

Of course, I am putting the cart before the horse—the horse being acceptance to a program at all. I do not assume I will get into Iowa. It is quite possibly the most prestigious program in the country. But even if I did, why would I expect Andy and Sachen to want to move to Iowa? What is in Iowa City outside Big Ten basketball and this writing program?

Queer as THAT?!?!

2006-04-04T16:48:00.000-04:00

At the risk of seeming simultaneously like a homophobe and a stater-of-the-obvious, I am compelled to admit that, immediately following my virgin "Queer as Folk" experience, I said aloud to my cat, "Wow, that is a GAY show."

I am person who has been wanting Showtime for as long as I can remember. When I was in high school, I wanted to watch R-rated movies with the good parts that regular cable cuts out, and now I am interested in the original programming, the so-called "groundbreaking" series, documentaries, and movies—like "Weeds" and "Huff," and of course "Queer as Folk." Well, my time has finally come. We have a free Showtime preview and I am as happy as any TV enthusiast could ever be.

I watched "Huff" Sunday night and tonight, I'm watching "Weeds." Last night, I skipped the end of the NCAA men's basketball championship game and stayed up past my bedtime to watch "Queer as Folk." It struck me initially as a gay, uncensored "Melrose Place." There was a lot of sex and also something happening at an ad agency. "Queer as Folk" is, of course, better acted and better written than "Melrose" and the comparison waned as I became more interested in the characters. I remained shocked by all the naked men because I am used to mainstream cinema and, therefore, ubiquitous naked women. (I am working on getting used to naked men, though.) One of my points is, however, why does there need to be nakedness at all? Can't we tell a story about the complexity of human relationships without boobs and asses all over the place? This is a beef I have with everything, really. The entire world. Not just "Queer as Folk."

I liked the show. I don't know if I've made that clear. I don't know whether or not it is an accurate representation of being young and gay in Pittsburg, but I am willing to bet that "Friends" isn't an accurate representation of being young and straight in Manhattan. We don't want TV that is 100% accurate. We just want it to reflect the way we are and the way we feel. We don't want it to ignore us, and we want it to be entertaining. I think "Queer as Folk" accomplishes that. I'm going to watch it again tonight. As a straight woman who supports the LGBTQ movement, this show represents kind of a "put your money where your mouth is" situation for me because I love TV. If I can support, appreciate, and like this kind of show on my TV, I will allow myself to feel good about that, but I won't tell myself that I know what it's like to be gay because I watch "Queer as Folk" anymore than I know what it's like to be African-American because I watch "Soul Food." (And I do watch "Soul Food" and I do love it.)

No More "Despair"

2006-04-02T00:32:00.000-05:00

This is the rest of the story. Don't forget to tell me what you think.

She didn't come to the store. He knew he had been foolish to expect her since he had forced her into saying she would. He stayed at the store for an hour after he closed it and then he drove to her apartment.
She wasn't there. Her car wasn't in the parking lot but he knocked on the door anyway. No one answered it so he went to Tom's Donuts and called her cell phone while he drank a cup of coffee.
When she answered, he said, "Where are you?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Keith."
"Oh. I'm on the way home from work."
"Where do you work?"
"I do hair at this place on Lima Road."
"Oh. You're a hair dresser?"
"Yeah. Sort of. Really, I'm a poet."
"Oh." Rachel seemed to him like a poet. "Can I meet you at your apartment?"
"Sure."
"Okay."
He was sitting on the steps leading to the door when she pulled into the parking lot.
"What do you want, Keith?"
"I want to talk to you," he said.
"About what?"
He had been so focused on getting an opportunity to talk to her that he had lost sight of what he wanted to say.
She seemed to sense this, and when he didn't answer immediately, she invited him inside.
"Do you want a beer?" she asked as she opened the refrigerator to get one for herself.
"Yeah. Thanks."
She handed him a bottle and sat down next to him on the couch.
"Will you show me some of your poetry?" he asked.
"Okay." She rooted through the stacks of papers and books and junk on the coffee table until she produced a brown leather journal. She opened it to a page near the end and handed it to him. "Here's something I wrote last night."
It was called "Utter Despair." He didn't usually read poetry. He mostly just read the newspaper. This poem seemed good, though.

Utter Despair
His mouth doesn't say a word,
But his eyes say something,
And his fist says the rest.
I don't know what he wants,
But this thing between us
is starting to feel like a test.

I may try to make him walk away
by showing him that it doesn't matter
and that I don't even really care.
But those eyes of his are looking at me
with a disappointment I didn't create and
I can't take credit for his utter despair.

Boredom drew me to him and,
of course, there's someone else
in both our lives, and there's no
future here anyway, even if we
were right for each other, there's
only even if and even though.

"Is this how you feel?" he asked.
"I think there's a lot going on inside your head that has nothing to do with me," she replied.
He nodded.
"Are you disappointed, Keith?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"I'm sorry about that. It's sad."
He shrugged.
She put her hand on his thigh and kissed his cheek.
"There's nothing anybody can do to change the way my life turned out and it could be worse." He paused. "My older brother killed himself."
"Oh. Wow. When?"
"Ten years ago."
"Holy cow. That's something huge to carry around all the time."
"I think he was probably disappointed, too, but I'm not going to kill myself."
"What was his name?"
"Henry."
"Like your son."
"Right."
"You admired your brother?"
"Idolized him."
"I see."
It was a standard response, reserved for those moments when you didn't have anything meaningful to contribute but you couldn't exactly stay silent. Her "I see" disappointed him, though.
Alex's shoes were on the floor next to the door.
"You don't love him?"
"No." She paused and moved her hand across his face, from his lips to his cheeks to his gray sideburns. "I don't love you, either."
"I know."
"And Alex loves me. Plus, he's good to me. He buys me things and he likes George."
"I could learn to like George." As soon as he said the words, he hated himself. Why was he begging this 26-year-old quasi-poet girl to love him? What would he to do with Brenda if Rachel were to love him?
"I don't think it's in the cards for you and George to be friends."
"Probably not."
"Are you going to break up with Alex?"
"No."
"Okay."
"Are you going to tell Brenda about us?"
"No."
"Okay."
He swallowed the remaining liquid in his bottle of beer and stood up. She stood, too, and squeezed his hand.
"This thing is really over, isn't it?" he said.
She nodded.
He bent down and kissed the bruise on her face. She moved her lips to meet his and they shared one last soft kiss.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome, Keith. Try not to be so disappointed."
"Okay."

He really thought it was over, that he wouldn’t see Rachel again, and that he should probably try to forget about her and their affair. He went to the store early on Monday morning, after spending the weekend telling his son that he couldn't go to Europe because there just wasn't any money. He wanted to sit alone and think in the dark. This time of year, the sun didn't come up until after eight and it was only 7:30. He had the newspaper, which he put on the desk and didn't read.
He appreciated the quiet of the morning; he appreciated it insensely, vigorously as if it were there exclusively for him.
The heat kicked on and it startled him. He stepped outside the back door to smoke a cigarette. The sun was barely visible on the horizon, but it was no longer dark. He could see without strain.
There were footsteps in the gravel and he looked up to see Rachel walking toward him.
"You're up early," he said.
She shook her head. "I'm up late."
"You haven't been to bed yet?"
"No."
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to see if you maybe wanted to get a doughnut."
"I only have about an hour."
"Okay."

They went to Tom's, as usual, and she told him that he looked "haggard."
"Have you been sleeping?" she asked. She was twirling the end of her hair and she seemed to him very young.
"I've never really slept great," he admitted.
She nodded. "Because of the disappointment."
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "when I feel like shit, you know, I wonder if this is how he felt."
"Your brother?"
"Yeah."
She let it hang there until he wanted to say more.
"But I don't feel like shit constantly so maybe it's not the same thing."
"Probably, he was depressed."
"He was better looking than me—and smarter, too. He played basketball in high school and I was in marching band."
"So was I."
"Really."
"What did you play?" she asked.
"Baritone."
"I marched snare, but I played piano in jazz band."
"A girl drummer?"
She grinned.
"We sent Henry to North Side, but he didn't like it. He wanted to play football at Snider so we filled out the papers and the school system let him transfer. He quit after one season."
"Do you talk to Henry about your brother?"
"No. I don't talk to Henry about anything."
"You don't talk to anyone about anything, Keith."
"I talk to you."
She bit into a cream-filled long john and a dot of cream got left behind at the corner of her mouth. She extended her tongue to bring it inside. "You only talk to me when I force you. But this thing with us is over so who will you talk to now?"
He shrugged. "I guess I'll go back to not talking to anyone."
"What about your wife?"
"That's just not the way it is with us."
"What is she like, your wife?"
"Rachel, what I did with you—what we did—that doesn't have anything to do with my family. It doesn't touch them, and I don't want to talk about them when I'm with you. I want to keep it separate."
"We're not lovers anymore. That's all over. We're friends now."
"We're not friends."
"Yes, we are."
"I'm 44 and you're 26. You're a poet and I'm a guy who owns a store and worries about how he's going to pay for his son's college."
"We have things in common. We both went to North Side and were in marching band."
"Not at the same time."
"We're both disappointed and a little wayward. And we both like doughnuts."
He smiled. "Why did you come to see me this morning?"
"I wanted to tell you that I'm getting married," she said with doughnut in her mouth.
"Oh." He paused. "To—"
"Yes."
He wasn't jealous or pissed off by her news. He was maybe a little disappointed but he was used to that feeling.
"Okay," he said. "That's…good."

When he went home, there was a note from Brenda. She had gone shopping. He was glad to find the house empty and even more glad to find beer in the refrigerator. He took a bottle and sat in a recliner in front of the television, but he didn't turn it on. He drank about five or six more bottles and then he went to her apartment. He knew that he was drunk and that he shouldn't drive anywhere, let alone to her place, but he went anyway.
Alex answered the door. He was Latino or Middle Eastern or maybe Italian. Anyway, he skin was brown and his hair was black. He was wearing a light blue dress shirt, untucked, and khaki pants. He feet were bare and he was holding George, whose eyes were closed in contentment.
Keith stood there staring at him until Alex finally said, "Can I help you, sir?"
"Who is it?" Rachel said as she appeared in the doorway next to him.
"I don't know," Alex replied. "Do you know this guy, honey?"
Rachel's eyes fixed on Keith but there was no sign of recognition. "No. No, I don't think so," she said.
"I'm sorry," Keith said finally. "I think I must be in the wrong place."
"No problem," Alex said as he closed the door.
"No problem," Keith repeated, nodding his head.

Me and Ava and the Table Makes Three

2006-03-29T01:58:00.000-05:00

Lately, I have been feeling more like a writer than ever. This confidence in calling myself a writer really began months ago, when I got Ava. The laptop makes me feel legitimate. It also allows me to be writing pretty much regardless of where I am. Then, on Sunday night, I put the laptop on the dining room table, spread my books out, plugged in my mouse, and unscrewed the cap on my bottle of sparkling juice, and I haven't looked back since. I think my couch-writing days are over. The table somehow forces me to be more serious about what I'm doing on the laptop, and—interestingly—the cat sort of digs it too. He likes it when people are working in his presence, and he likes to sit under the table or stretch out under the chair while I'm here on the computer. Tonight I (and by "I," I mean "Andy") made a pot of coffee because everyone knows that writers drink coffee. Well, it was either coffee or gin, and I seem to be taking a break from alcohol. The coffee feels good, though. I may make it a habit. It can't be worse for my teeth than sparkling juice.

I can't really express in words how content I feel here at the table with my laptop and my books. I know Andy wishes I would work in the office, at my desk, but I enjoy his company too much. I would be too tempted to talk to him and would be distracted from my work. We really need separate spaces. Plus, it's really messy in there. Maybe it's a process and I'm working my way toward the office. Of course, the dining room is in the opposite direction...

Utter Despair Again

2006-03-28T21:21:00.000-05:00

I can't figure out where stopped when I was posting "Utter Despair" so I am going to start at the beginning—again. I don't like the way it looks on the page, though, That I do remember. I can't seem to get my web-expert husband to make it pretty because he is busy making Witnessing Life pretty. (And it IS pretty. Go there.) So I guess "Utter Despair" will go on looking stupid. Here it is—again. Some of it, anyway. It is basically finished so the rest will be up soon.

"Do you want something to drink?"
She was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room and he couldn't look at her face.
"Maybe just some water," he replied.
He listened to her flip-flops walk across the tile to the cupboard and he heard the door squeak as she opened it to take out a glass. Then she went to the freezer door for the ice, and next the refrigerator door opened and closed just long enough for her to remove the filtered water pitcher.
She put the glass on the table in front of him and said, "Do you love her?"
"No." He paused. "I don't know."
"I don't love him. I like him a lot, but I'm not in love with him," she said.
"It must make this thing with us easier."
"Sometimes, yes. The emotion, definitely. The logistics, just sometimes."
"Right. Of course."
He sipped his glass of water and focused his eyes across the square plywood table to a watercolor hanging on the opposite wall.
"Where did you get that painting?"
"I don't remember," she replied. "Maybe California. Do you like it?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I mean, it's fine."
"If you don't like it, it's all right. I don't care how you feel about the art in my dining room."
"It's fine. I just don't like orange."
"Okay."
She was still standing behind him, in the doorway, and he still couldn't look at her face. He finished his water and stood up slowly. He pushed the chair under the table and closed his eyes.
"I have to go."
"Sure. It's late."
"I'll call you."
"That way you won't have to look at me while you're talking to me."
"Look, I'm sorry."
"I know."
He started for the door, but she put her hand on his shoulder to stop him.
"Please turn around."
"I can't."
"Please."
He took a deep breath and spun around on his heels.
The swelling around the eye had reduced but the hours had only enhanced the bruising.
"It looks awful. Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I just wanted you to see it. Now you can go."
"I'll call you."
Once he was inside his car, he started the engine and sobbed violently for about 30 seconds before driving home.

But he didn't go home. Instead, he went to his store. He owned a postal annex on the corner of West State and Wells. He opened the door with his key and disabled the alarm with the numerical code he himself had devised. Then he stood at the island in the lobby with his elbows resting on the counter and stared at the copy machines. There were two, one color and one black-and-white.
He didn't turn on the lights. He preferred the stripes of shadow and light that the streetlights created. He moved to the back of the store and sat at his desk with his hand on the phone.
He had met her at the store. She had come through the door one day just like any other customer, except that he knew instantly that he would try to have sex with her.
She wasn't beautiful and her nose was pierced. His wife was probably a little prettier than she was. But she was interesting looking where his wife's beauty was standard, run-of-the-mill attractiveness. Her hair was short and kind of messy, as if she hadn't taken the time to brush it before she left the house. She was wearing torn blue jeans and a blue hooded sweatshirt. Her glasses had brown plastic frames and he could hear his wife calling her "eccentric." His wife didn't like eccentrics and, usually, neither did he.
He had been watching her on the security camera while his assistant manager Tanya, who was also his wife's sister, helped her. When she was about to leave, he emerged from the back and offered her a business card.
When she looked at him and he saw her face up close, he realized that she was probably at least ten years younger than he was, maybe closer to twenty.
"We have printing services and finishing services, like binding and laminating and stuff," he said.
"Okay. I'll keep that in mind," she replied politely. Her voice was soft and distracted.
"It isn't just about shipping packages."
"I saw the copy machines."
He nodded. "We have a really terrific color copier."
"Okay. Thank you for the information."
He knew the exchange was awkward, but he himself was an awkward person so he was used to the feeling.
"Please come back," he said as they neared the door.
"I will," she promised.
"I'm Keith Taylor, the owner."
"You own this store?" She seemed surprised and, he thought, perhaps a little bit impressed.
"Yes, for four years now." He left out the part about how he was laid off after 17 years at International Harvester and then was unemployed for almost a year before he got a small business loan to open the store.
"Cool."
In the parking lot, she got into a gray Honda Civic and turned left on to State.

Eventually, he did go home and his wife was waiting in the living room with the lights off.
"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" he asked.
"Where have you been?" she replied.
"At the store."
"Busy day?"
"Yeah."
"Henry called."
His son was away at college, supposedly studying history at IU.
"What did he want? Money?"
He sighed and sank into a chair across the room from where his wife was sitting on the sofa.
"Yes. He wants to go to Europe this summer."
"So do I."
"I told him we would talk about it this weekend. He's driving up."
"Okay."
"Are you going to be here?"
"When I'm not at the store."
"I'll help you on Saturday morning. Tanya can't work."
"Okay."
There was a small silence as he untied each of his shoes and slipped them off his feet.
"Keith."
"What?"
He heard her exhale slowly, through her teeth.
"Never mind," she said. "I'm going to bed."
"All right. I'm going to watch some TV."
He sat in his recliner and looked at the images on his TV for about 15 minutes before he picked up the phone.
She answered on the first ring.
"Hello."
"It's me."
"Hi."
"Does it still hurt?"
"It's a black eye, Keith. Yes, it still hurts."
"We may have to stop seeing each other."
"Why? Because you hit me?"
"Yes."
"You're right. It's not fun anymore."
"So it's over?"
"Yes."
"All right."
"Bye."

Her name was Rachel, which she told him the second time they met. She came into the store when he was the only one working and he flipped the "open" sign to "closed" so they could go have a doughnut at Tom's Donuts.
She asked him questions about his life, his routine, his background, and his store. His one-word responses began to frustrate her and then she sighed.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't apologize. I'm sorry about all the questions. I was just trying to figure out your passion."
"My passion?"
"Yeah, what drives you, what makes you interesting."
"I'm just an ordinary sort of guy. There isn't anything interesting about me."
"I'm not so sure. I think you love your store, but still you closed it in the middle of the day just to have a doughnut with me."
He shrugged.
"Why did you want to have a doughnut with me?"
Did she want him to say the words? He wasn't going to say the words. He was only barely thinking them. "I was hungry," he replied.
She smiled and he saw that one of her front teeth was slightly longer than the other. "Luckily, I was hungry, too."
She showed him pictures of her cat—a mangy-looking gray thing with a tuft of fur missing from its back.
"What happened to the fur right there?" Keith asked.
"He got in a fight about three years ago, when we were living in Indy. For some reason, it never grew back."
"When did you move here?"
"Well, I grew up here, went to high school at North Side, and then I went to Indy for college, but it didn't really take, you know? I felt disconnected there so I came back."
He nodded and wondered briefly if Henry ever felt disconnected.
"You don't like cats," she said.
"Not really, no," he admitted.
"Maybe you'll like George. He has character."
But he met George about 15 minutes later and he didn't end up liking him and it was entirely because of his "character". It was because he growled whenever Keith crossed within five feet of him. It was because he slept on Rachel's bed 23.5 hours a day and it didn't occur to her to move him for any reason. It was because he managed to be on the bed and in the bathroom at the same time and he guarded the bathroom as if it were the White House and made it impossible for Keith to piss whenever he was there.
It was clear that she was living with someone. There were men's sneakers in the living room, two toothbrushes by the sink in the bathroom, and men's clothes hanging in the closet next to hers. He never mentioned it and she never offered any information.

The affair went on for four months. They met mostly in the mornings, always at her apartment. She was usually just waking up when he arrived. Like Henry, she liked sleeping in and valued this sleep time above most other things. Sometimes he brought her breakfast.
She would answer the door in her pajamas, with the back of her hair sticking up and sleep still in her eyes. They didn't talk about their lives, their families, their work, or their dreams, but they did spend a lot of times talking in abstracts—about politics, TV shows, the weather, and George. He knew that she secretly liked soap operas and that she had voted for Bill Clinton but he didn't know if her parents were still together or if she had any siblings.

He drove to her apartment before going to the store the next morning. It was 8:30 and her car was parked in the small lot behind the brick building. He pulled his pickup truck into the empty spot beside her car and looked up at the third windows. She was probably still asleep since she didn't usually wake up until noon or later.
He got out of his truck and climbed the stairs to her door.
It took her almost five minutes to answer the door and when she did, she was wearing only a t-shirt.
"Rachel, you can't just open the door dressed like that. What if it were someone else?" he said.
"Who else would knock on my door at 8:30? I don't know any other morning people, Keith."
"I'm not a morning person." Being with her was, for Keith, a constant struggle not to seem boring. "It's just that I have a business and somebody has to open the store."
"I know. What are you doing here?"
"I changed my mind."
"About what?"
The eye was even more black and blue and now there was yellow and green, too.
"About us."
"You don't want to end it?"
"No."
"What if I do?"
"Do you?"
"I don't know."
"I'm not going to hit you again."
"I know."
"But you don't know if you want to keep seeing me?"
"Right."
"I have to go to work."
"All right."
"Will you come by the store later?"
"I'm not sure."
"Rachel, I need to see you again. I can't let it end like this. If it has to end, fine, but not like this."
"Okay."
"You'll come by the store later?"
"Yes."

He hadn't hit anyone since he boxed in high school, and, of course, he hadn't intended to hit Rachel. In fact, when his fist struck Rachel's face, for a split second, he thought she had hit him.
They had been arguing because he came over after he closed the store and didn't call first.
"Alex will be home in half an hour," she said when he arrived.
It was the first time she had used his name, had mentioned him directly at all.
"I won't stay long," he promised. He leaned in to kiss her and she backed away.
"Keith, I have a boyfriend."
"I know. I have a wife."
"I assumed as much since you wear a wedding ring."
"His name is Alex?"
"Yes."
"I see."
"What is your wife's name?"
"It doesn't matter."
"I'd like to know it."
"It isn't important. It doesn't change anything."
"Then just tell me."
"I don't want to."
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't matter."
"You don't want her to be real for me the way that Alex is real for you now."
He shrugged. "I'll go."
"Please tell me her name."
"Don't push me, Rachel. I'm leaving."
He reached for the doorknob and she grabbed his arm. "Keith, what is her name?"
"What the hell is your problem?" he barked suddenly.
"I don't have a problem. I just want to know her name."
"I'm not going to tell you."
"How long have you been married?"
"22 years."
"Do you have kids?"
"One, a boy. He's 19."
"What is his name?"
"Henry."
"Why will you tell me his name but not hers?"
"Because this thing between you and me doesn't have anything to do with Henry."
"Your cheating on his mother has nothing to do with him? He might disagree."
"He won't have a chance to agree or not because this isn't his business."
"What is her name, Keith?"
They were standing side-by-side, but he had turned his head toward her. Her hand was still on his arm when his hand formed the fist. He shook off her grip and drew his arm back so that his hand was level with his shoulder, and he turned his body so that they were face-to-face.
She said it again. "What is her name?"
Then he punched her. His fist just moved quickly toward her cheek, and when it made contact, her eyes widened in shock.
"Brenda," he said as his hand fell limp at his side. "Her name is Brenda."

What about form and convention and structure?

2006-03-27T23:06:00.000-05:00

Of course the conventions seem arbitrary and ridiculous even to me sometimes. I'm talking here about literary and grammatical conventions. Tonight I was watching "Everwood" and Andy was writing a letter to his dead wife. The structure of the letter struck me as silly and random. What difference could it possibly make if he just wrote: "Dear Julia, It made me mad when you cheated on me. Love, Andy" in one line like that? Let's set aside the fact that the wife is deceased and focus on the letter-writing genre, which is largely dead, I understand, but this idea can be applied to email as well, if the emailer is the sort of emailer that I am. I write emails in the same format as I would write a letter because I am a slave to conventions. Indeed, I am like a religious zealot when it comes to The Rules of Grammar. But tonight, during "Everwood," I had a sort of epiphany. I've been heading in this direction for a couple weeks, ever since I had a similar realization about public restrooms. The problem is that I'm afraid these conventions are built on a false foundation, and since I've pretty much been living my life in a tribute to these conventions, what do I have if I don't have these conventions to structure my writing, my reading, and my life? What if Andy (the husband, not the "Everwood" character) is right and literary criticism if crap? What if a story is just a story? What will I do then?

Confessions of a Flawed Feminist

2006-03-24T21:19:00.000-05:00

Tonight, as I allowed my male cat to abuse me physically and verbally, I started thinking about all the parts of my life that could be interpreted as antifeminist. I try and of course I really do believe in the tenets of feminism, like equal pay for equal work, gay rights, reproduction rights, etc. How, then, do I explain the "Melrose Place" on my TV and the Usher cd in my car? What am I supposed to do about the fact that I like men's basketball with an unbridled passion and women's basketball strikes me as sort of creepy? And then there are the soaps, which I will defend one day, lament the next, and then ignore for the next week. That's an issue for another blog entirely.

I know these women who eat organic food, make their own clothes, read feminist magazines, and always know what's going on in Chilé—where, by the way, they just elected the nation's first female president, whose cabinet is half men, half women. I find it hard to believe that these model feminists have dirty little secrets. And, if they do, how do I find out about them?

Pardon My French

2006-03-23T22:37:00.000-05:00

Brigitte actually said "Pardon my French" today in class. This perfectly illustrates the point I need to make in this post, which is meant to be an addendum to the previous post about how I don't want to do French homework. See, my lack of motivation for the homework is almost in direction opposition to my motivation to go to class. I like going to this class because I like Brigitte. She is so small and French and cute and charming. And today she said, "Pardon my French." Why does she assign so much homework? The load is so heavy that there's no time for us to study. We discussed this before class today. I'm glad I'm not the only one who is struggling to get it all done. I didn't mention how adorable I think Brigitte is. Everyone isn't as open as I am, you know? Then, to top it all off, she didn't collect any of the homework I didn't do for today. She was just charming and endearing for 75 minutes and then we left. Brigitte is like my real life Vanessa Marcil because no matter how irked I get at her when we're apart, I'm just enamored when I see her.

I got a disease, deep inside me...

2006-03-23T14:38:00.000-05:00

I have a terrible case of whatever it is that makes you not want to do your French homework. This is a powerful almost inability to make myself do it. For instance, here I am not doing it again. I spent four hours at work today not doing it as well. Believe me, there wasn't much actual work to do. This problem is specific to French homework. I don't have any problem doing other homework, but when I sit down to do French, other things happen. This morning, at work, I opened Ava to work on this essay for French and I ended up writing five pages in my novel, which I haven't worked on in over a month. I just randomly opened it up and started writing a scene where Hillary pays Ava's rent without telling her. I told myself I would just write that scene and then I'd do French and, well, five pages later... I actually had a dream last night about how wonderful my life would be if I didn't have French. It's not even difficult. It's just tedious and always there. I'm never ahead, just always barely caught up. It's a good thing there are only about six weeks left in the semester.

Sour 16

2006-03-19T23:55:00.000-05:00

Only IU can make you believe in miracles and then sucker punch when you're looking the other way, like down the Road to the Final Four.

It was a season that flatlined several times before the final TOD was declared on Saturday. We should feel lucky—glad, even—that they got back into the tournament. We should feel good about the win over San Diego State, and we should look to the future, to the dawning of a new era. These next couple weeks and maybe even months will be exciting as Rick Greenspan searches for a new coach, and we'll be turning to the sports page everyday to see whom he's interviewing. See, there's a lot to smile about, but we're just so darn disappointed.

I mean, this was kind of the Little Team That Could. They suceeded when it seemed impossible, and they failed when it seemed easy. Marco scored 34 points against Duke and Sheldon Williams. They had 16 three-pointers in that game against Gonzaga. Sixteen is a lot. But they lost to Penn State. This was a team that could inspire love and hate almost with the same shot. So why not go all the way? Maybe I just wasn't ready to let Marshall Strickland go.

Speaking of disappointed, what's with the Sweet 16? I am not impressed. I honestly can't believe we lost all six Big Ten teams in the first two rounds. That doesn't mean I won't watch. It just means I'll scowl every time I think about the Final Four last year, about Michigan State AND Illinois bringing long-deserved national recognition to their conference.

I want Duke and Gonzaga in the Final Four so that J.J. Redick can show Adam Morrison who the player of the year is.

1 down, 13 to go

2006-03-15T22:49:00.000-05:00

Let's say I eat an average of two sandwiches a day, in order to allow for the days when I have just one and the days when I have three. I haven't had a sandwich since last Tuesday so that makes me 14 sandwiches in the hole. I had my first post-surgery sandwich tonight and it took me at least an entire half hour to eat because I have to take very small bites. This may turn out to be a positive thing because I've read that the French take smaller bites in order to chew and digest their food thoroughly, and we all know that French women don't have Sachen-sized thighs.

Hello, World

2006-03-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

Today I officially rejoined the real world—sort of. I still slept until 2:30 and kind of spent the first few hours of the day in a fog. I didn't take any demerol because I wanted to be able to drive to school. The weather was very odd and certainly didn't help my mood. I adapted to being awake more and more as the day progressed. It turns out that I do remember how to drive. It's just like riding a bike—without wind, and with more danger to pedestrians. I started to feel weird and light-headed during class but I think that's because I was hungry. No less than two women in the class were eating Subway sandwiches. I, of course, with my freak mouth cannot eat sandwiches. I came straight home and made some soup, which I did not burn.

Am I at the lake?

2006-03-12T21:37:00.000-05:00

For the past couple of days, I have been feeling like I'm at the lake. Maybe it's the damp weather. Maybe it's the demerol. I've been sleeping on the couch in the living room and last night I left the door to the balcony open. When I woke up this morning, I was very confused. I thought I was at the lake. I haven't been to a lake in years. I haven't slept in a lake cottage in longer. And it was very clear that it was March and I was in the living room of my apartment, which is not near water. Still, I had this overwhelming sensation that I was at the lake. It hasn't completely faded yet.

Tonight I burned soup, which I barely knew was possible. I'm not sure how it happened. I followed the directions, but it still burned. Now I have 1/2 gallon of cheddar potato soup that tastes like smoke. (Yes, I tried to eat it anyway.)

I want my Spring Break back.

Update

2006-03-10T08:10:00.000-05:00

I called Luckenbach, Texas. They're sending reinforcements. Anyone heard of demerol?

Feeling my pain

2006-03-09T20:03:00.000-05:00

I thought I'd be in Luckenbach, Texas by now, but here I am still in Fort Wayne, Indiana, feeling the pain in my mouth. The pain meds aren't really helping. I am disappointed in the whole prescription pain medication experience because there is still pain and there isn't loopiness.

Watched basketball today. By far, the most exciting game was the Syracuse's OT win over No. 1-ranked UConn. If it was able to keep me awake, it was exciting. I was expecting to be loopy during the tourney. Even though there isn't loopiness, it still probably isn't a good idea to drink Mike's Hard Lime, right?

The Last Supper (For Now)

2006-03-07T21:24:00.000-05:00

Tonight I had my last meal, so to speak, since I go under the knife tomorrow at 9am. I had a turkey sandwich, potato chips, Coke, and a Cadbury Egg. I don't know how long it will be before I can eat one again, since the process of extracting the wisdom teeth could knock out the fillings in the teeth near the wisdom teeth. I'm hoping that I have more options when/if I am executed. Hopefully, I will be in Terre Haute then, nearer to Dagwood's.

I am only slightly nervous, and I wasn't even that until yesterday. Mostly, I don't want to get up so early. I am, however, experiencing a sensation of heady anticipation of the hydrocodone (the generic form of Vicodin). I plan to blog while high—which, I'm afraid, is not an uncommon practice. I have never been under general anesthesia so the trepedation is related to that idea, of course. I suppose it will turn out all right, since I am an inherently lucky person. (How else does one explain the $2 I found in Andy's pants while doing the laundry or the fact that it only cost me $2.55 for the hydrocodone pills?)

The truth is that I am kind of looking forward to having an excuse to do nothing. When I had pneumonia, I basically stayed in bed for a month. For the first week or so, I was too tired and drugged even to watch TV, but when I became more alert, I had a lot of time to think and get some reading done. No one expected anything of me. When I managed a shower before 4pm, it was a major accomplishment. I couldn't work or really see people, and that was okay. I liked being alone and I relished the notion that I was supposed to be doing anything else but resting. I know the wisdom teeth removal won't turn into some month-long mental vacation, but two or three days off will be nice.

It must be March...

2006-03-04T22:24:00.000-05:00

...because I have the madness. I didn't realize how high I was riding the wave of North Side's sectional run until the wave crashed into Snider and we were all swept into the undertoe. I am disappointed for myself and for my sister and for those boys. Sitting so close to the court and looking at their faces really affected me.

Rewind to last Sunday, though, and the week in basketball looks pretty fabulous for me. On Sunday, I watched IU beat Michigan State and then I switched the channel to see IPFW beat North Dakota State. Then, on Tuesday, I was there when North Side sailed past Northrop, 101-68. On Wednesday, my Hoosiers got past Purdue during Purdue's senior night. It was North Side on top again when they played Homestead on Friday, and I was in the stands, getting the most out of my $9 3-game ticket. Earlier today, IU ruined another senior day, this time at Michigan.

So in light of all the victory in my life this week, I guess North Side's loss shouldn't sting so much. But it does.

I know I have the madness because I went straight home from the game tonight to watch Duke play North Carolina because I am secretly fond of J.J. Redick. Well, I guess it's hardly a secret now that I've put it on the Internet. J.J. himself could know now.

I can't wait for the Big Ten tourney next week. Vicodin and basketball. Whose Spring Break will be better than mine?

Finally: Law & Order & Katie

2006-03-03T22:44:00.000-05:00

I think there may finally be a Law & Order for me. Of course, I like SVU, but I can't watch it very often. I mean, I can barely make it through a St. Jude Children's Hospital commercial. Anyway, tonight I watched "Conviction," which I believe is a Law & Order show. Maybe it's only a Dick Wolf show. Regardless, I liked it. It's pretty much only lawyers. And J. August Richards is on it so I have something nice to look at were it to get boring. I am hesitant to judge shows on pilot episodes because I have seen so many good shows with rotten pilots and vice versa. So I'll watch it again next week, with Vicodin as my sidekick, and see what I think then. For now, I am happy to have spent an hour with some feisty lawyers.

Notes from Procrasti Nation

2006-03-03T21:00:00.000-05:00

The production company that puts out "Living With Fran" is called On Time and Sober.

George Clooney's ex-wife is now married to John Slattery, who played Dennis on "Ed."

I think I'm going to watch "Waiting to Exhale" when I get my wisdom teeth extracted.

Midterms do not take themselves.

Owning v. Renting

2006-02-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

This is not going to be about housing. This is a book issue.

Right now, I'm reading a book called "Joan Didion: Essays & Conversations," and it is changing my life. Seriously, I am not the same person I was when I woke up this morning. The problem is that I got this book from the library. I do not own it. I think I may need to have my own copy. I need to write in it and fall asleep with it on the bed next to me and maybe get a little drool on it. The other, bigger problem is that the book is out of print and seemingly impossible to purchase. Therefore, I am left with having this personal experience with this book that isn't mine. (It's not quite as dirty as it sounds.) I am all for the library. If it weren't for the library, this book and I would never have found each other, but sometimes I need to own a book. The library is handy when you aren't sure about a book. I am sure about this book.

TimeSexLove

2006-02-26T21:04:00.000-05:00

Ever since I bought this Mary Chapin Carpenter CD, I have been kicking myself (not literally) for not getting it sooner. It is changing my life. I always knew I liked her, but I didn't know it could be like this. Some of the songs are so soft, they're not good for listening in the car. The road noise detracts from the lyrics. Sometimes I can't hear what she's saying. I need to get my hands on some other albums, but for now, this one on repeat is getting the job done. Today was a good day anyway, but this song I just discovered, "The Dreaming Road," made it very good.

"Keeping to myself and from the light
I wasn't odd or strange, just quietly rearranged
Sometimes the biggest change stays out of sight"

I Dream of Revolution

2006-02-23T10:30:00.000-05:00

Two nights ago, albeit after reading a text on Central American revolutions, I had this dream that I was either part of a revolution or in a movie about a revolution. Either way, I was only the mistress of the head revolutionary. There was a big house and I was in the bedroom, laying on a giant bed reading a magazine. I had just showered and had on a purple silk robe. When I looked up at the ceiling of the house, there was no ceiling, which makes me think it was really just a movie set. Anyway, there was a knock and I bellowed for someone to answer the door. Then the person at the door started hollaring to be let in and I recognized her voice. It was Kassie DePaiva (Blair, OLTL). I jumped off the bed and ran to the door myself.

She was not Blair, though. She was a reporter, and she had a different hair cut. She wanted to talk to me about the revolution. I took her to the bedroom and we sat on the bed. We spoke about the revolution for a little while and then I started whispering about how much I like "One Life to Live." She seemed flattered and then suddenly we were making out. It wasn't as if I were attracted to her, though. It was like I was acting, except that I am not an actress.

Coupling

2006-02-21T23:44:00.000-05:00

I have discovered the British sitcom. Or at least I am in the process discovering it. There's a show called "Coupling," which was poorly replicated on American TV. Anyway, I love this show, "Coupling," despite its silly name. I am watching every episode. There are only 4 seasons with about 6 or 7 or 9 episodes in each season, called "series" in the British lexicon, so it won't take too long. I'll report on it when I'm finished.

Am I funky?

2006-02-20T18:17:00.000-05:00

Today I heard "Mr. Jones" by the Counting Crows on the radio, which has never happened to me before. The song is about funkiness, and it got me thinking about my own funkiness. There's that skirt I want to wear (once I get my abs under control), but people have suggested that it is too funky for me. I maintain that I am funky on the inside, which I truly believe. But I fear that "quirky" is really all I can hope for. I mean, if I really went funky, what would I do with all my turtleneck sweaters? Diane Keaton is quirky. Mary Richards is almost quirky, but Rhoda is funky. I want to think less about being funky and more about something else, something meaningful. I think funkiness might be innate, anyway. I either have it or I don't. There's nothing I can do to change it. I guess I'll find out when I get the skirt. "Mr. Jones" is still a really good song.

About Mike Davis

2006-02-18T22:11:00.000-05:00

I don't want this blog to turn into a forum for my thoughts, opinions, prayers, hopes, dreams, etc. regarding IU basketball, but I also don't want to impose any constraints on it. I want the words to flow in whatever direction suits them. And I can't just say nothing about Mike Davis.

It reminds me of when I tried to write a play. I like plays, and I watch them with what I consider to be more than the average amount of intellectual conviction. I consider them through an intellectual lens. I read plays even more critically because I am a writer. But I got over-confident in my abilities. I thought that if I like plays and I like to write, I may like to write a play. No, it was actually less incidental than that. I thought I was freakin' Neil Simon.

I called the play "Norah and Jason's Expertly Planned But Poorly Executed Divorce." Then I wrote the first act with little trouble. It's actually quite amusing. (This would be the 2002 national championship appearance.)

Then I tried to write the second act.

The characters needed more developing, but I was fresh out of development. The plot needed to move forward, and although I knew (and still know, for this adventure is not over; I have not resigned) where it was going, I didn't know how to get it there in play form.

I can't figure out why the first act went so much better than the subsequent acts. Everyone---no one more than Mike Davis, I bet---is trying to figure out why there was magic in his first three seasons and why these last three have just fallen apart. The answer is probably a combination of factors, and what would knowing it get us, anyway? What if it can't be replicated? What if there will never be another Tom Coverdale? Then what are we left with but the knowledge that IU basketball greatness is not a guarantee? Who wants to know that for sure?

I am dangerously close to writing the Carrie Bradshaw response to Mike Davis' resignation.

The major dissimilarity between my play experience and Davis' head coaching experience is that I was able to keep my failure quiet. Sure, I wrote the first act and showed it to some people, but these people are not like IU basketball fans. They haven't wondered yet where the second act is. Poor Mike Davis (and my pity is genuine) had to stumble and fall in front of a nation (at least a state) full of people expecting him to do just that. Of course, I didn't anticipate his failure, but the people like me weren't the people he could hear.

So, yeah, I feel sorry for him and I have for a long time. I don't know why his critics couldn't distinguish between Mike Davis and Myles Brand because it was the latter who fired Bobby Knight. I understood this and I was only 19 and not yet even really an IU basketball fan. The other thing these people fail to consider is that Bobby Knight hired Mike Davis. He's not anti-Bobby Knight.

I am a person who likes IU basketball, and I choose to look at Davis' graceful exit as an opportunity for the program to regain its prestige. IU basketball is supposed to be a powerhouse; it's at least supposed to be competitive.

We're very serious about our basketball in Indiana, and we want our coaches to be tough. Mike Davis wasn't tough enough and that's not an insult. He had an emotional reaction to coaching that kept him disconnected from the diehard fans who can't see beyond the W column.

I'm not surprised that he's leaving. I am pleasantly surprised that he had the foresight and the humility to see the inevitable conclusion and bowed out with graciousness. I don't know that it had to be inevitable, but it was nevertheless. There was a tremendous amount of pressure on Mike Davis from the very beginning. He handled it better at some times than at others. I don't know who the other candidates for the job were when Knight got fired, but I do know that it was necessary to make a change and that Mike Davis was there. He stepped up when the team needed him, and I will remember the good times more vividly than the bad because that is my nature. Maybe I'm not a playwright and Mike Davis isn't an IU basketball coach. But we tried and our hearts were in the right place.

Love Letter

2006-02-15T23:31:00.000-05:00

Dear Marshall Strickland, A.J. Ratliff, Marco Killingsworth, Rod Wilmont, Errek Suhr, Lewis Monroe, Earl Calloway, Sean Kline, Ben Allen, Robert Vaden, and Mike Davis,

I know you think I shouldn't still love you or tell you that, but you keep on playin' games like you know I'm here to stay. I know it may seem like I'm talkin' 'bout the dream like the dream is over and talk like that won't get me nowhere. I will go down with this ship and I won't put my hands up and surrender. There will be no white flag above my door. I'm in love and always will be. And Bethany? You can make her free. She just longs to drink some wine and get with you.

Love,
Katie

The Secret of Life II

2006-02-13T21:52:00.000-05:00

I still don't know what the secret is, but I think I may have located it. It's something about the way Sachen stretches. Or it's in a Rob Thomas song. Or it's what makes Andy's hair part on the side while he's sleeping. I'm still working on it. The point is that it's in the little things.

The Secret of Life

2006-02-12T21:10:00.000-05:00

Faith Hill's song says, among other things, "The secret of life is there is no secret and you don't get your money back."

Lately–I'd say for the past month or so–I haven't really felt on top of things. I feel overwhelmed by school, even though externally it probably doesn't seem like I'm working very hard. I am depressed some of the time and just tired the rest of it. I watched "A Strange Affair" on the Lifetime Movie Network tonight, and I saw myself in Judith Light's eyes. They were lost or something. Maybe just disappointed. But I'm not disappointed. I have Andy and Sachen and a pretty good life. I know that wherever we're going, we're going there together. It's not perfect, of course, and the fun is in the imperfection.

But I wish I could manage to feel more together, psychologically.

Still More "Despair"

2006-02-09T14:51:00.000-05:00

Eventually, he did go home and his wife was waiting in the living room with the lights off.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" he asked.

"Where have you been?" she replied.

"At the store."

"Busy day?"

"Yeah."

"Henry called."

His son was away at college, supposedly studying history at IU.

"What did he want? Money?"

He sighed and sank into a chair across the room from where his wife was sitting on the sofa.

"Yes. He wants to go to Europe this summer."

"So do I."

"I told him we would talk about it this weekend. He's driving up."

"Okay."

"Are you going to be here?"

"When I'm not at the store."

"I'll help you on Saturday morning. Tanya can't work."

"Okay."

There was a small silence as he untied each of his shoes and slipped them off his feet.

"Keith."

"What?"

He heard her exhale slowly, through her teeth.

"Never mind," she said. "I'm going to bed."

"All right. I'm going to watch some TV."

He sat in his recliner and looked at the images on his TV for about 15 minutes before he picked up the phone.

She answered on the first ring.

"Hello."

"It's me."

"Hi."

"Does it still hurt?"

"It's a black eye, Keith. Yes, it still hurts."

"We may have to stop seeing each other."

"Why? Because you hit me?"

"Yes."

"You're right. It's not fun anymore."

"So it's over?"

"Yes."

"All right."

"Bye."

Tim and Faith

2006-02-09T01:08:00.000-05:00

I still believe in Tim and Faith. I saw them on "Oprah" yesterday, and she and I both think it's for real with these two. I don't know why it matters to me whether or not Tim McGraw and Faith Hill stay in love, but it does. I've always liked famous people in a weird, voyeuristic kind of vicarious-living way. As individuals, Tim and Faith seem like pretty ordinary celebrities. There are famous people who are more talented and certainly more interesting. But as a unit, they are fantastic. I am invested in their relationship more than I am in their music, but it was "Like We Never Loved At All" that renewed my interest in them. Of course, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman's split (the heartache heard 'round the world) was when I initially turned to Tim and Faith for evidence that true love still existed. Then, at the start of 2005, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston announced their separation, and I once again needed the proof from Tim and Faith. Lately, though, the celebrity couples are falling apart right and left. Chad Lowe and Hillary Swank seemed like a solid partnership to me, and now they're getting divorced. Lance Armstrong and Sheryl Crow initially struck me as an odd match but it seemed to be working for them. I got used to it, but now that's over. I need Tim and Faith now more than ever, and they are here for me now more than ever. They're touring together this summer, and if I can stomache a live performance of "Let's Make Love," I just may try to go. "Like We Never Loved At All" brings me almost as much pure inner happiness as the idea of Tim and Faith the couple does.

Oh, and Tim is funny. On "Oprah," he made chicken and dumplings, and while Faith was trying to explain how he made this for her when they first started dating, he interrupted with "This is what got me laid."

Oh, and Faith wears glasses when she's at home and she looks sooooo cute in them.

Still Afraid

2006-02-09T00:23:00.000-05:00

I saw this at www.idiots4bush.com. Thought it was funny. Am still afraid of Karl Rove.

From this moment...

2006-02-08T23:54:00.000-05:00

There will be no more posts about the depressing and emotional hobby that is IU basketball. I will keep on watching because I am loyal and also pathetic. (Thank you, Vanessa Marcil for exploiting my loyalty and turning it into something pathetic.) The game will still matter to me, but I will limit its significance to those two hours (or so) that I spend watching, listening, or wishing I was watching or listening. I will not conduct anymore Internet postmortems, and I will not question my faith because it is what it is. I love basketbal.

More "Despair"

2006-02-07T17:56:00.000-05:00

Here's more of the story. Sorry about the awkward format. I'm working on figuring out how to translate it better.

But he didn't go home. Instead, he went to his store. He owned a postal annex on the corner of West State and Wells. He opened the door with his key and disabled the alarm with the numerical code he himself had devised. Then he stood at the island in the lobby with his elbows resting on the counter and stared at the copy machines. There were two, one color and one black-and-white.
He didn't turn on the lights. He preferred the stripes of shadow and light that the streetlights created. He moved to the back of the store and sat at his desk with his hand on the phone.
He had met her at the store. She had come through the door one day just like any other customer, except that he knew instantly that he would try to have sex with her.
She wasn't beautiful and her nose was pierced. His wife was probably a little prettier than she was. But she was interesting looking where his wife's beauty was standard, run-of-the-mill attractiveness. Her hair was short and kind of messy, as if she hadn't taken the time to brush it before she left the house. She was wearing torn blue jeans and a blue hooded sweatshirt. Her glasses had brown plastic frames and he could hear his wife calling her "eccentric." His wife didn't like eccentrics and, usually, neither did he.
He had been watching her on the security camera while his assistant manager Tanya, who was also his wife's sister, helped her. When she was about to leave, he emerged from the back and offered her a business card.
When she looked at him and he saw her face up close, he realized that she was probably at least ten years younger than he was, maybe closer to twenty.
"We have printing services and finishing services, like binding and laminating and stuff," he said.
"Okay. I'll keep that in mind," she replied politely. Her voice was soft and distracted.
"It isn't just about shipping packages."
"I saw the copy machines."
He nodded. "We have a really terrific color copier."
"Okay. Thank you for the information."
He knew the exchange was awkward, but he himself was an awkward person so he was used to the feeling.
"Please come back," he said as they neared the door.
"I will," she promised.
"I'm Keith Taylor, the owner."
"You own this store?" She seemed surprised and, he thought, perhaps a little bit impressed.
"Yes, for four years now." He left out the part about how he was laid off after 17 years at International Harvester and then was unemployed for almost a year before he got a small business loan to open the store.
"Cool."
In the parking lot, she got into a gray Honda Civic and turned left on to State.

Tony and Eva

2006-02-06T19:45:00.000-05:00

Eva Longoria's boyfiend, NBA star Tony Parker, is 23. He was born in 1982. He is almost an entire year younger than I am and he's 7 years younger than Eva. He was still in high school when she played the Brenda lookalike on GH and subsequently entered my life. Maybe his age is startling to me because I can't imagine dating a 17-year-old guy. He is terribly cute and terribly charming, though. He was raised in France and he has a cute little accent, too. I just learned so much watching "Oprah" today. Tim and Faith are on tomorrow...

Vitamin C and Me

2006-02-03T04:05:00.000-05:00

I think I may be addicted to these cough drops. The grapefruit ones are especially causing me problems.

Utter Despair

2006-02-03T02:46:00.000-05:00

I am working on a new short story called "Utter Despair." This time I really am going to write it in blog installments as I've been threatening to do since I joined the blogging world. Here is the beginning:

"Do you want something to drink?"
She was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room and he couldn't look at her face.
"Maybe just some water," he replied.
He listened to her flip-flops walk across the tile to the cupboard and he heard the door squeak as she opened it to take out a glass. First the freezer door for the ice, then the refrigerator door opened and closed just long enough for her to remove the filtered water pitcher.
She put the glass on the table in front of him and said, "Do you love her?"
"No." He paused. "I don't know."
"I don't love him. Most of the time, I don't even like him," she said.
"It must make this thing with us easier."
"Sometimes, yes. The emotion, definitely. The logistics, just sometimes."
"Right. Of course."
He sipped his glass of water and focused his eyes across the oblong cherry table to a watercolor hanging on the opposite wall.
"Where did you get that painting?"
"I don't remember," she replied. "Maybe California. Do you like it?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I mean, it's fine."
"If you don't like it, it's all right. I don't care how you feel about the art in my dining room."
"It's fine. I just don't like orange."
"Okay."
She was still standing behind him, in the doorway, and he still couldn't look at her face. He finished his water and stood up slowly. He pushed the chair under the table and closed his eyes.
"I have to go."
"Sure. It's late."
"I'll call you."
"That way you won't have to look at me while you're talking to me."
"Look, I'm sorry."
"I know."
He started for the door but she put her hand on his shoulder to stop him.
"Please turn around."
"I can't."
"Please."
He took a deep breath and spun around on his heels.
The swelling around the eye had reduced but the hours had only enhanced the bruising.
"It looks awful. Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I just wanted you to see it. Now you can go."
"I'll call you."
Once he was inside his car, he started the engine and sobbed violently for about 30 seconds before driving home.

Now THIS is IU basketball

2006-02-02T02:30:00.000-05:00

No worries.
The faith is back.

State of the Union

2006-02-01T04:00:00.000-05:00

I have purported to be interested in politics and the nation and all, but tonight I went to see "The Squid and the Whale" instead of watching the State of the Union address. Of course, being I am inherently a predictable animal, I came right home and drank Tang and watched a rerun of the speech on C-SPAN. The president's address seems mostly unworthy of comment and analysis. There are just a few things I feel are worth mention–in no particular order, certainly not of importance. First, Chertoff is still more suited for director of the USSR's Department of Homeland Security. Sadly, the USSR is no longer and Chertoff is ours. Secondly, I must admit that I laughed at the joke about President Bush and President Clinton being two of President George H. W. Bush's favorite people. (There, I feel better.) Thirdly, I appreciated the inclusion of the AIDS crisis, but he focused it on the U.S., where AIDS is certainly an issue but we can't afford to ignore the crippling effect it is having on Africa. President Bush didn't have to mention AIDS at all, though. I doubt anyone but me would've noticed. All the point (purposefully singular) he earned on AIDS, he lost at the subversive jab at gay marriage. Lastly, I watched with furrowed and confused brow as President Bush appeared to be signing autographs immediately following the speech. I find it an inappropriate blurring of the line between president and celebrity, but what is he supposed to do when people ask for his autograph?

I hesitate to comment further because I still haven't read the text of the speech, which is part of my presidental speech ritual. I will, however, express my disappointment with how the Democratic response was handled this year. Last year, Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi sat in some chairs and talked with each other about the speech. This year, the governor of Virginia stood and stared into the camera and read a prepared speech. Luckily, I discovered Evan Bayh on Charlie Rose and felt a little better. More on Bayh later.

Keepin' the Faith?

2006-01-29T19:15:00.000-05:00

Lately, holding on to my IU basketball faith is more difficult than getting the cat to love me. As I reflect on the dismal 40 points scored against Minnesota's 61 points, I once again question what exactly it is that I'm holding on to. My character is susceptible to the lure of being a fan. I latch on to things that excite me and I really do like to cheer. (Despite my seemingly indifferent exterior, rest assured that I am excited on the inside.) But at what point do I cease to be a fan and start to be just pathetic? I don't want to give up on the team. Some of the guys, like Marshall Strickland, mean something to me, but none of them will ever mean what Tom Coverdale meant. Am I, then, just living in the past? Did the IU basketball ship sail while I was out getting Coney dogs for the game?

It's been almost four year since the amazing run to the Big Dance that cinched my loyalty. Four years is a substantial relationship but it isn't a marriage. I'm feeling very mixed up about my basketball now. In the years since the 2002 national championship, I have grown into more than an IU fan. It stretched into the Big Ten and then into the NCAA as a whole. I like this time of the year, and I look forward to it. I hesitate to type the words, but do I need to go shopping for a new team? Because I grew up in Indiana, I will never be comfortable rooting for an out-of-state team. That leaves me with Purdue, Notre Dame, and IU from which to choose. Now IU is looking pretty good.

This crisis of faith is temporary, I'm sure. They will beat Northwestern on Wednesday and I'll be embarrassed of this post. I'm just struggling with my faith right now. Where is it, exactly? Is it still with Tom and those guys, and if it is, how do I transfer it to this new crop of players? I have real basketball fondness that extends beyond IU so I won't be looking for something else to do in March. I want to be able to love these guys enough so that two stupid games in January don't disappoint me past the point of no return. The trick is, probably, not to think about it so much. That is my fatal flaw. If I were in a Shakespeare play, I would literally think myself to death.

I'll have other crises before the season ends. And I will think about Tom every time I watch this team play. IU basketball is as much about history and loyalty and pride as it is about skill and talent. This team has the latter set of qualities, but their heads aren't always in the game and, more importantly, neither are their hearts.

21 Grams

2006-01-29T04:30:00.000-05:00

Tonight I watched a movie about three of the most miserable people on Earth. It's called "21 Grams," and it gets it title from the notion that a person loses 21 grams of body weight at the moment of death. Dreary, isn't it? That idea is probably the most uplifting aspect of the film. I won't spoil the story because I believe the movie is worth watching once–just once, though. Like "Monster's Ball," it's too much to go through twice. "21 Grams" tells a story about forgiveness and redemption, about which of these we are able to give to ourselves and to each other and which we need to get from somewhere else, like perhaps God. But there isn't really religion in this movie. Too much hope in religion, you know. Even Sachen thought this movie was depressing. He kept sighing and shifting in his chair as if he were having trouble sleeping through it. I find myself simultaneously wondering if there is merit in making these kinds of hopeless movies and wishing I could write something this good. The characters are stuck in circumstances they neither created nor can change and their honest and raw pain is fascinating and compelling. We know where it's going and that's exactly where it goes. The only time "21 Grams" surprised me was when the characters screamed, which is natural a response to this kind of horrible, twisted, devasting situation. I also find myself uncomfortable with my attraction to these kinds of films, full of depressed and depressing characters, and also with my desire to write something like it.

Indiana 60, Iowa 73

2006-01-25T02:30:00.000-05:00

This morning, I heard on the radio that Jan. 24 is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year. I looked at the gray sky, at my moist windshield, and at the trees bent over as they succumbed to the forceful wind. I thought about the fact that it was 9:45 am and I was out in the world already. And I decided that it wasn't a depressing day. For one thing, I like the gloom, and although I despise the wind, one unpleasant aspect does not a depressing day make. The most-depressing-day-of-the-year label followed me throughout the day, however. Everything that wasn't smooth and perfect became cause for concern. Did my car start funny or was that my imagination? Was it necessary for Mark to be five minutes late for work and then to take 10 minutes to change his clothes in the bathroom, thus making me 15 minutes late leaving work? When I arrived at school this afternoon, my nemisis the wind was in full swing. I know I looked ridiculous all hunched over trying to make my way to CM without blowing over, but still I was not calling this a depressing day. I went home and watched GH, which was mediocre, and then turned half my attention to a rerun of 90210 with Vanessa Marcil, which is a depressing subject for me but I got mostly over it six or seven years ago. The cat rejected me and my elbow ached, but I was not ready to give in. All these factors make this particular Jan. 24 not a great day but certainly not the most depressing day of the year. Then I watched basketball.

Barely Poetry

2006-01-20T01:00:00.000-05:00

Inspired by Katie Casey's bravery in poetry, I "penned" this semi-autobiographical poem during class last night.

It's called "Is she a writer or is she lazy?"

She uses it as an excuse,
says "I'm a writer" when
she oversleeps for a 4:30 class
and when she forgets to do
the laundry and he has to wear
dirty socks
and when she gets caught not
listening to your story about
your tough class or your stupid boyfriend.
And the cat doesn't get fed
and she says she thinks best
with a pen in her hand but
you suspect she's only trying
to swipe your pen.
And you and he and the cat are
only half convinced that she really is
writing on that $1000 laptop and not
just playing Tetris.

Reason Why I Will Probably End Up in Grad School No. 58

2006-01-18T03:15:00.000-05:00

Last night, I declared aloud to no one but Sachen that Tetris is "too hard." If this game of manipulating falling blocks with no tangible consequences is "too hard," what will life be like? I am resolved not to find out.

Mobisoap

2006-01-14T00:45:00.000-05:00

CBS is developing a soap opera that you can watch on your cell phone. There's an article about it in the Weekender. Apparently, its tentative title is "Hey, It's Me." Clever, huh?

Katie on Writing

2006-01-12T04:50:00.000-05:00

I'm reading a book called "Ernest Hemingway on Writing," and I'm growing increasingly concerned that I have been living all my life the kind of self-tortured existence that this book deems "the writer's life." I find myself drawn in by Hemingway's descriptions of himself, his work, and his life, even though—save for "The Sun Also Rises"—I'm not overly enamored with his writing. (The aforementioned novel deserves to be hailed here as one of my favorite books of all time. It is so honest and simple and therein lies its complexity.) Hemingway, like so many other writers, doesn't want to talk about writing. He thinks it's useless and self-aggrandizing, but this editor sifted through his letters and his work and his conversations with his friends and discovered that he couldn't help it.

The photo on the cover of the book shows him with a typewriter and a mustache reminiscent of Adolf Hitler but that is irrelevent to the effect this book is having on me. Hemingway thinks that a miserable childhood makes for a better writer, and I, of course, much to my dismay, did not have a miserable childhood. I have always feared that this would stand between me and my desire to write meaningful, important fiction.

Now I am wondering if my innate character is standing there now. I feel too little and too much and not in the right way. I am incapable of self-examination. I worry too much about how the words look on the page when I'm writing by hand and I become distracted by spelling errors when I'm typing. I don't want my ideal of the writer to come from Hemingway who was perpetually drunk and unhappy, but I find that this person I've been wanting to be—which has been stewing in my subconscious for years, long before Hemingway got there—I find this person in his words. I find this person in Joan Didion's words and in Kate Chopin's words, too. Someday I will write a very important paper on the nature of influence and how much is just recognizing part of yourself in other people and how much those people are truly changing you. I think it is related more to self-exploration and self-awareness, but I am at best an amateur thinker on these fronts.

This current round of self-doubt is only compounded by recent discovery that I may like to play Tetris on my computer more than I like to write. Of course, when I go to sleep at night, I don't see shifting colors and shapes and when I'm driving across town to work, I'm not thinking about falling blocks. I know that I will write again, and that's an idea that Hemingway comes back to as well. Perhaps the arrogant streak in me that dares to compare myself to Hemingway is evidence that I really am a writer after all. The fact that I have to get up and go to work in six hours and even though I am quite tired I still sit here at my laptop suggests that I am not destined for greatness in the business world.

Drive Me

2006-01-10T02:40:00.000-05:00

Tonight we were talking, in my "Diversity of Women in the U.S." class, about what drives women and how we can learn a lot about a woman if we know what drives her. I agreed readily and then I started to think about what can be gleened about me this way. Suddenly, I realized that I don't know what drives me. I don't know how to complete the sentence: "The driving force behind the way I live my life is..." Is it writing? I sort of want it to be bigger than that—more world-changing, I guess. But if writing is all I have then I'll take it. I do know that I am more grounded than I used to be. Taking responsibility for Sachen and moving in with Andy and getting married changed my perspective just enough that I no longer feel like I'm floating around in this bubble that is supposed to be the plan for my life. I always felt like a nomad, even though I lived in the same place with the same people for my entire lifetime. I guess I was a spiritual nomad. I was struggling so fiercely to be independent that I didn't realize that independence could be just knowing what I want and when I recognized that Andy and Sachen were what I wanted, I relaxed in a way I had never done before. I took a deep breath and accepted this kind of life. It wasn't what I had imagined my life would be like at 24, but life seldom works out the way we think it will. Who really wants the life their 18-year-old self envisioned, anyway? I tell myself that I don't belong to anyone but me, but when I look at Andy and Sachen snuggled together on the bed reading "Get Fuzzy," I know that I belong to them as much as they belong to me. Mother Teresa said something about how peace will happen when we realize that we belong to each other. Maybe I'm just to the point where I can understand that whatever it is that drives me is here in this place, and I'll figure it out in my own time, the same way I always end up figuring out stuff.

"Found" poetry

2006-01-09T03:31:00.000-05:00

This isn't found poetry as it is traditionally defined. Found poetry is actually when you take words that weren't originally meant to be poetry, like a grocery list or something, and decide it's poetry. I actually think found poetry is silly. This is just a poem I found on my PC when I was getting ready to give it to Blake.

I'm Not a Poet

Lawrence Ferlinghetti knows why I’m not a poet
Poetry is a circus—
a trapeze artist’s show
And I’m afraid of heights
There is, in fact, no Coney Island
in my mind

Aaron Sorkin on writing

2006-01-03T01:50:00.000-05:00

In the personal quotes section of Aaron Sorkin's bio at imdb.com, there is this quote:

"I love writing but hate starting. The page is awfully white and it says, 'You may have fooled some of the people some of the time but those days are over, giftless. I'm not your agent and I'm not your mommy, I'm a white piece of paper, you wanna dance with me?' and I really, really don't. I'll go peaceable-like."

It speaks to me in that "Killing Me Softly" sort of way.

It's a blog-eat-blog world

2006-01-01T21:00:00.000-05:00

I've been overthinking the medium again. There were several times over the past week when I wanted to post—when I even said aloud to people, "I'm going to blog about this"—but after careful consideration, I deemed the topic not worth blogging. For instance, I used to say, about things that irk me, "That really sticks in my craw," but I never knew what my craw was or where I could find it if I needed it. Then, on Friday, Jonathan said to Yvonne, "Don't get your knickers stuck in your craw," and it was suddenly very clear to me. I said to them, "I'm going to blog about this tonight." I really meant to. I was determined to get out of my own way. But I got busy with changing the cat litter and I forgot. Two days later, the whole craw thing lacks the luster it once held.

Something else I learned this weekend: "The Berenstein Bears" is also a TV show and a movie. It's not just about books, folks.

Now I'm sitting here with powdered sugar on my sweatshirt because I was eating puppy chow and watching "Hannah and Her Sisters." The point, however, is Mia Farrow and Woody Allen. Or at least the point stems from them. I do not, however, know what the point is. We have been watching the movie for 15 minutes and Sachen has circled and settled on three different chairs. He is having a restless day. Maybe he needs to blog, too.

It seems very dark for 6:00 pm.

Love this photo

2005-12-26T22:30:00.000-05:00

I am more fond of this image than I am of most photographs of people I actually know who actually take good pictures. Why does the cigarette make such a fantastic prop? It is the ultimate accessory. I have imagined the photo sans cigarette and I don't think it would have the same allure. What is it about the cigarette? Why do the most interesting characters in my stories smoke? I know it's an easy dialogue companion, but I don't feel comfortable employing easy techniques. I also don't like to use that word "technique" when I'm talking about writing, but that's another post altogether. So what is it about the cigarette?

It won't write itself, will it?

2005-12-17T20:55:00.000-05:00

I've been working on the novella, and I've been learning things from myself again. I realized that I've been unwittingly subscribing to the socially constructed heterosexual dynamic in which the power to determine the course of the relationship belongs to the man. If the woman wants something from the relationship, she tells her friends, her mother, her coworkers, and her cat, but she only sighs and growls at her partner. If the man wants something, he asks her for it. Now I find myself trying to negotiate the relationship between Hillary, a 42-year-old corporate attorney, and the woman for whom she left her financier husband. Ava is 25 and an art student. Clearly, the financial power belongs to Hillary, but the sexual power seems to belong to Ava since this is Hillary's first sexual relationship with another woman. Ava has been here before, and Hillary is feeling confused and vulnerable. Anyway, I was very clear on all this until this afternoon when Ava tried to ask Hillary to move in with her. The scene was floundering under the weight of stitled dialogue and lackluster sentiment. Hillary doesn't want to move in with Ava; it's too soon. But I couldn't write it that way. Hillary doesn't want to hurt Ava's feelings. She wants her to understand that a lot has happened very quickly and she just needs to be on her own, in her own space for awhile. And Ava does understand. I had specific lines and ideas that I wanted to express, but I didn't know to whom to assign them. Finally, I started giving Hillary all the power lines and Ava's became reactionary. Then the scene started was playing out like some creepy mother-daughter exercise in miscommunication. It reminded me of an earlier scene where Hillary suggests that she could be Ava's mother. (Ava very dryly replies that that is impossible since her mother is Jewish.) Alas, the scene is struggling still, but I will master it.

John Spencer

2005-12-17T18:09:00.000-05:00

(1946 - 2005)

I am shocked. I really don't know what to think about it. It's a little like when John Ritter died. I kept thinking, "But I just saw him on Sunday and everything was fine."

This is pretty

2005-12-15T23:30:00.000-05:00

I like Blogspot because the templates are prettier than the ones at Livejournal. Plus, Andy's blog is here, and this way our blogs can be near each other. The Internet can get lonely, you know.

I am thinking about posting this novella I've been working on, in parts, of course. First, I want to see about getting some kind of copyright protection like we have on the HFP site. Right now, the story is called "Because Collin Tattersall's Wife Left Him For a Woman." It began as a short story, but once I had reached the short story length, the story was not over, so now I am calling it a novella. If I can summon enough bravery to post it before it is finished, then I can get instantaneous feedback. I am simultaneously excited by and agitated about the possibilities.