Last Call for the Wild Bunch

I haven't been able to sleep since the pigeons got into the house.

It's not like they keep me awake, just seems like their arrival coincided with my insomnia.

Now it’s me, Butch-Cassidy, the Sundance kid and The Wild Bunch.

Butch-Cassidy is home again. Steven left him here when he came for breakfast.

"Take care of your dog. He needs you, not me." 

Butch-Cassidy is the only reason I leave the house. He needs food. He needs to walk. I don't need food and I could probably lay in bed forever.

Maybe I need him more than he needs me.

The Wild Bunch showed up about a week later. They must have realized my love of Wild West outlaws and figured the dog and the fish needed a gang.

They’ve made a roost in my pantry and since I’ve stopped buying food, I cant bring myself to care. They live next to an old box of knock off cereal and a container full of sugar.

Steven told me to get rid of them, but I’ve gotten used to the cooing-- that and for being such chunky, slow birds they are rather difficult to catch.

After a couple attempts I made peace with them being my new roommates.

There's flapping here and there throughout the day as they explore the back porch, but I drew the line at them actually coming inside the kitchen.

I don't want bird poop on my things.

They got in the day of Butch-Cassidy's bi-annual bath. I left the back door open while I chased Butch-Cassidy around the yard trying to bathe him.

Took me three hours to get him fully clean. When I came inside exhausted and wet and covered in white fur. I heard movement and immediately called out for my mother.

She is the only one with keys. Well, Steven has keys. I'm alive because Steven has keys. But Steven works during the day. I didn't expect him to be over.

There was no answer.

Butch-Cassidy ran past me into the house.

My guard dog.

"Get him, Butch!" I yelled. "I don't know who you are, but Butch Cassidy has killed before, and he'll kill again!"

No answer. But there was wild barking from the pantry and the sounds of the last remaining food items crashing to the floor.

When I got inside I found Butch barking like a maniac at my three intruders. Three chubby little pigeons huddled together on my top shelf rustling their feathers and looking around warily.

 "Could've been worse, could've been rats that got in," I told Steven.

"Pigeons are flying rats."

"Aw, I think they're cute."

"You're in denial."

"No, that's a river in Egypt." I laughed at my own wittiness.

"That's not how that joke works." He groaned.

"I thought it was funny."

"They're gross."

"I will not have you speaking ill of the wild bunch in their own home."

"This is not their home. It's yours."

I asked him to help me get rid of them, but he told me that was my job, and then hung up on me. He was still angry with me. I had avoided him for months after I was released from the hospital. And now I was calling him about my pigeons like nothing ever happened.

Getting the birds out felt impossible. They seemed to have grown tired of the wild life and chosen my pantry to retire in.

"Last call you crazy bandits!" I'd taken to leaving a little bird bath kind of water dish for them at night before going to bed.

I've caught them splashing in the water and it's unbelievably adorable.

The birds give me something to focus on. Just like the dog. Just like the fish. Lives that are entirely dependent on me. In their own weird way they give me a sense of purpose.

My God, what has become of me?

I leave the water dish and head to the living room and sit on the couch.

"Butch-Cassidy!" I yell. And immediately I hear the jingling of his collar and the pitter patter of his paws as he trots from my bedroom to the living room.

"Up-up, little man." I pat the cushion next to me, waiting for him to jump up. He hops on easily and stomps around in circles, kneading the couch until he deems it comfy enough to lay--which he does with his head in my lap.

"Good boy."

I looked around for the control when I heard knocking at my door. Butch-Cassidy leaped off the couch and ran barking to the door.

I stood up, groaning at being inconvenienced after plopping down in my comfy spot.

"Who is it? We don't want it." I yelled.

"Open up, Genesis. You're being evicted." Came the voice from the other side of the door.

I run to the door, undoing the chain and flinging it open.

"Walter Carmine, don't you dare evict me!" I scream before throwing myself at him.

I hadn't seen Walter in months. I understood why he didn't see me. He  couldn't face it. I forgave him for it. Also when one of your best friends is the owner of your apartment building and hasn't demanded you to pay your rent, you look past the fact that he couldn't face seeing you in the hospital or during that time when you wouldn't leave your bed and your mother forced you to shower.

"I heard you're housing vermin in my building and I can't have that." He was holding a metal cage in his hand.

"Who told you about the Wild Bunch?" I asked as he walked in.

"You would name them wouldn't you?" He shook his head and walked towards the kitchen.

"What? I couldn't just call them the pigeons. That's so déclassé."

"Your mother called me and told me to do my job as a landlord and get rid of them. I told her, her daughter needs to pay her rent first and she told me who wants to pay rent when your apartment is infested." He stopped at the pantry door and smiled. "It's not easy arguing with your mother."

"Tell me about it."

"Ok, I'm going in. Shut the door behind me. I'm not coming out till I have them." He opened the door and closed it quickly behind him.

"Oh my God, Genesis, have you been feeding them?"

"I couldn't let them starve!" I was happy he couldn't see me turn red.

There was flapping and angry cooing as Walter worked on capturing the birds. I could hear him swearing at the birds and could only imagine the scene.

I heard the container of sugar hit the ground and Walter screaming profanities.

"Don't hurt them!" I yelled.

"I'm about to kill them all and feed them to Butch-Cassidy in a minute if I can't catch this last bird."

There was more cursing and finally the slam of the metal.

"I got them!" I opened the door to find a very disheveled and triumphant Walter holding the Wild Bunch in the cage. "Grab your jacket. We'll take them to the old apple orchard and release then far from here so they don't get any ideas."

If it was possible for pigeons to look pissed, these sure did. He set them on my kitchen table and pulled out a cigarette carton.

I shot him a disapproving look and he shrugged.

"I think I deserve this one."

I looked into the cage of my former roommates. "I'm sorry guys Walter says you can't stay here anymore. And if it's between you and me getting evicted, I'm gonna have to go with you. But you'll be happier in the orchard it's nice there and you can steal school kids' field trip sandwiches."

They just cooed at me. Like a very cross pigeon version of "whatever."

"Stop taking to the birds and let's go." Walter had a cigarette in his mouth and his car keys in hand.

"I'm coming."

We pulled up to the orchard's main entrance and parked.

"Ok Gen, I'll wait for you here." We both got out. Walter leaned against his truck finishing his cigarette. The orchard was not well lit. I could only see his outline and the glowing embers of the cigarette as I walked away.

I reached a picnic table and set the cage down. Three sets of beady eyes looked up at me.

"This is the end guys. It's been swell." I opened the cage. They didn't move. "Um, get out guys."

More staring and feather rustling. I sighed and shook the cage. There was angry cooing and the birds fought against each other to get out.

I could hear Walter snickering in the background. I looked over and he was throwing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

The birds were free and I could use my pantry again. Eventually. When I cleaned it and bought food.

I picked up the cage and and walked back to the truck.

"Good job, Gen. Please never keep a family of wild birds in that apartment again."

I hugged him.

"Thanks Walter."

"You're welcome kid."

We got into the truck and drove back to my place in silence.

"Do you want to come in and watch a movie?" I asked when he parked.

"It's late."

"I don't sleep and I could use the company."

He turned off the car and opened the door.

"You'll stay?" I asked, climbing out of the passenger side.

"One movie and I get to choose." I groaned and smiled.

"Sure, you did just take care of my pigeon situation."

We headed upstairs to a pigeon free apartment.

70. orchard, denial, ember, last call, insomnia, pigeons.

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Venus

Venus is the planet of love.

I read once that the heat on Venus creates a pressure so intense that standing on Venus would feel like the pressure felt 900 meters deep in Earth's oceans.

Crazy right?

Sounds just like love.

My mother brought me a small potted cactus the other day. “Mira Geni, it looks like a little star.” I placed it on the windowsill of my kitchen, right above the sink.

It’s the only bit of green in my sunny yellow kitchen.

I like to stare at it whenever I do the dishes.

Which is twice a day to wash Butch-Cassidy’s bowl and to clean out the little container of food my mom drops off on Sundays.

She trusts me now to eat the food she brings me without her watchful eyes.

Before she would sit across from me at my bubblegum pink table and watch me as I forced myself to eat.

The color of the table seemed to bother her every time. She'd look down at it like it offended her by being so pink.

"Ay mi'ja." She'd sigh and then order me to eat.

Love.

I miss the company.

There are bread crumbs on the counter from the peanut butter and honey sandwich I nibbled on earlier. I take the crusts and leave them in the bowl for the Wild Bunch, the family of pigeons that took up residence in my pantry. They won’t leave, and I haven’t kicked them out, so I just feed the bread and give them water and it seems like it’s working out okay.

Today I have a full sink, because for some reason I told Steven I would cook for him.

I was sitting on my couch watching a sappy movie and trying not to cry as the main characters finally have their first kiss when Steven called me.

"Are you crying?" He asked.

"No." I sniffed.

"What's wrong? Are you ok? Should I come over?" I could hear the panic in his voice.

Panic which is not unfounded given that he was the person who found me in a pool of my own vomit on my kitchen floor. In my sunny kitchen with my lemon yellow walls and my bubblegum pink table and mismatched chairs. My happy little room the scene of my attempted suicide.

Hearing your best friend crying by herself with only the menagerie of animals she keeps to protect her would be unsettling at the least.

"No, I'm fine. I'm sorry. I'm watching a made for TV movie and they've finally found love." I assure him.

"Can I come over to be sure?" No one really trusts me.

I don't blame them.

"Come over."

He came over and sat on my couch with me. We watched the end of the movie in silence. I watched. He watched me out of the corner of his eye. I did not look good.

I'd pulled my hair up in two messy buns, rinsed my face and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. But the water couldn't rinse away the dark circles and hollows under my eyes from lack of sleep and from eating the bare minimum to survive.

"This movie is terrible." He said. He reached down to rub Butch-Cassidy's belly. Butch laid next to him after jumping all over him when he arrived.

After me, Steven is Butch's favorite person in the world. He only likes my mom because she occasionally feeds him scraps.

"I know." The movie ends and we sit there in silence.

"You know what I miss?" He asked me.

"What's that?" I turned the TV off and shifted to face him.

"When you would get all ethnic and make the sweet mole with rice and homemade tortillas."

I rolled my eyes. "'Ethnic.'" He laughed.

"You know what I mean. You get all, 'my mother taught me and her mother taught her and her mother taught her and the great eagle taught them all' when you make it. I miss it."

"'Great eagle,' mas pendejo," I mutter and smile in spite of myself.

"Great eagle or whatever your people believed in."

"Oh my gosh Steven I'm about to sick Butch-Cassidy on you if you don't stop." We laugh as we look at Butch-Cassidy, belly up on the floor at Steven's feet, snoring.

"Your ancestors demand the sweet brown mole... and handmade tortillas..." He trailed off.

Cooking requires effort.

Cooking requires care and a love for the food and for the ones who will consume it.

Cooking requires a desire to give some kind of shit.

Love means giving some kind of shit.

I exhale slowly. And watch him. He looks nervous. Like he pushed too far. Like the suggestion of me doing anything that required effort may have already mentally exhausted me.

"Well, I am a really good cook," I whisper.

He chuckled. "I guess."

"We'll see if I feel like it and maybe I'll invite you over." I smile at him and we sit quietly until he says it's late and heads home.

Because Venus reflects so much sunlight, it is usually the brightest planet in the night sky.

I wonder if it’s because of this brightness that they decided this planet would best represent love in the night skies. Love makes you glow.

I stir the pot of mole and turn the heat low as I start on the dishes.


13. first kiss, a planet, a type of plant, bread crumbs



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Love Letter (Scavenger Hunt #6)

I met you on the corner of Madison and State.

Zero, Zero. The center of the grid.

You probably don’t know that.

You don’t look like you’re from around these parts, and honestly most people who grew up here don’t know that.

Chicago is a grid city. Going North, South, East or West from Madison and State Street the numbers get bigger the farther you go.

Cool right?

You probably wouldn’t think so, so I didn’t tell you.

Your hand was out and I was the first taxi that pulled up. You were carrying bags from some store on Michigan Avenue they probably have where you’re from.

Tourist.

You tell me you need to get to Water Tower Place. You asked if I knew where that was.

Of course I know.

You climbed in and shook the snow out of your hair.

Lovely.

All over my seats.

Thank you.

You ask me my name, I reply. The company I work for tells me I should be nicer to the customers.

Why? I ask myself.

It’s a taxi service. I take you safely from point A to point B, does it matter if I tell you what my favorite color is or if I tell you about my love of fish sticks?

I listen to you tell me about your trip so far.

Your husband took your kids to the mall so you could shop. Isn’t that sweet? I nod my head.

Your younger son is into some book series about werewolves. Kids today, right? I shrug.

You were about to go back to the hotel for some “me time” but you lost your key. I make a consoling noise as I dodge a cyclist.

Turn right on Washington. Left on Michigan. Right on Pearson.

Here we are.

You pay your fare and tip me $5. You smile and wish me a good night.

Enjoy the city, I reply.

You close your door and I turn on my light. Ready for the next bout of human interaction.

6. love letter, werewolves, taxi service, lost key, fish sticks.

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Love Languages

"You know, there's a book about that." She said.

"About what?" He asked, walking faster to catch up with her.

"About why every time we fight, you buy me something." She turned around and stuck out her tongue.

"Oh yeah? Does it say how you like pretty things and I'm the sucker who goes and buys them for you?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her close.

She laughed and tried to pull free, but only half heartedly. He tightened his grip.

"Nooo..." She whined. "It's a book about the different way people show their love. You show it by giving gifts. You know 'cause you're a big brooding meany pants who doesn't like talking about his feelings."

"Hey!"

She laughed. "What?"

"I'm not a 'brooding meany pants,' whatever that means."

"It means that when you're angry with me you get mopey and quiet and then I get all paranoid trying to figure out what I did wrong.

And it'll be something like I DVR'd over one of your shows, or I wouldn't let you order pizza for dinner again, or I forgot to put away my inks and you stained another pair of jeans." She trailed off quietly.

He squeezed her hand. "You know I can't get hot pink and gold ink out of my pants."

"You gotta talk to me babe. You know I hate that cold shoulder shit."

"I know, I know. Look, my family wasn't big on talking things out. I'm not used to it. you know that. We're all repressed. Look at my mom." He pulled her into his arms.

"But I'm getting better aren't I?" He whispered into her ear.

She could feel her face getting hotter.

Public displays of affection both embarrassed and thrilled her, not having been accustomed to them before he stumbled into her life.

She squirmed in his arms trying to break free.

"Remember," he continued, "when I told you you were gross for drinking straight out of the juice carton?" He brushed his lips against her jaw and down to her neck, breathing in deeply.

"I'm not gross." She muttered. She enjoyed the warmth of his breath against her skin.

"You are." He kissed her lightly. "It's cool though. I still like you."

"People are staring."

He looked up and saw a small group of teenage girls giggling in their general direction.

He turned back to her. "Those aren't people." he said as he moved his lips to the other side of her neck. "Those are teenagers." He ran his fingers through her hair and moved his other hand to the small of her back.

"Now what was I saying?"

"You were telling me about how gross I am." She reached for his face and pulled him away from his neck. She looked up at him.

"Tell me I'm not gross." She demanded.

He smirked. "Oh you're so gross. You leave your dirty laundry all over the house. Panties and socks everywhere."

She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It's what drew him to her the first day they met.

"Oh yeah? And what else? You have a list?"

He kissed her forehead. "Oh, if I started going over that list we'd end up missing the movie."

"That long, eh?"

"You're a brat and a mess."

"Damn. Should we file for divorce then?"

He sighed. "I think so. Well, we gave it a good run."

"Three months were long enough."

"I'll call the lawyer."

She smacked his arm. "Oh shut up. Let's go in, I wanna sit in the back."

"Ooh it's gonna be one of those movie visits." He pulled her towards the theater door.

She giggled and hurried along. "No! I want to actually see this one. I just hate having people sitting behind me."

"Damn tease."

"Shut up."

He winked at her as he opened the door.

"Hey, so what's your love language?"

She stopped and thought about it a moment. "You know something? I'm not sure. I didn't get very far in the book. Why don't you try and find out?"

Keep. In. Touch.

I remember his mom calling my house looking for him.

We still had a landline at the time. It's been a long time since we've had one of those.

I wonder if she just went through his autograph book.

"Good luck! Have a great summer. K.I.T. love Kastle."

What was his name?

"Bushy" is all that comes to mind. That wasn't his name obviously. But Mrs. Martinez gave us all nicknames. Bushy had really thick eyebrows.

Poor kid.

I think she gave him a complex. At some point during our eighth grade year he got them waxed for the first time. He came in the next day with really sharp eyebrows and really red skin.

I got the name "Kastle," with a K though, to differentiate me from the other Castle in Mrs... (What was her name again? Something with a K I believe now that I think about it. I hadn't thought of these people in 15 years) K's class.

I've been Kastle for nearly 16 years no one ever questions it.

I remember a few other nicknames, "Barbie," "Spikey," "Elfie," "Peanut Butter Girl," it seems odd to grown up me that an adult would give some mildly offensive nicknames based off of physical traits to her young teenage students and get away with it.

But Bushy's mom called me one summer night not long after we graduated. I think his name was Ricardo. Somewhere in the back of my mind that name stands out.

She called the house, my sister was the one who answered the phone. She'd asked for me. My sister handed me the phone.

She told me she was Ricardo's mom and that he hadn't come home and if I'd heard from him or seen him.

We were never that close, but I'd told him to KIT!

I told her I hadn't but that I'd call around.

A few days later he called me. Told me he was home. That he was fine. A misunderstanding.

We were 14.

"KIT! have a good summer! Good luck in high school! I hope you don't run away from your mom's house!"

I don't think I spoke to him again after that.

But for some reason driving down Laramie, I thought of that boy and wondered what ever happened to him.

Sunday Morning

My alarm goes off at 540. I didn't get enough sleep.

I haven't had enough sleep in the past week.

But that's how it goes every time.

This is what it is to be a slave to your art.

I'm dramatic, I know.

I set my alarm for six. Resting my eyes for another 20 minutes, thankful that I'd showered the night before.

And five minutes later my alarm goes off again. My phone says it's six, but my body says I should sleep more.

But it's the Christmas performance. It's the big one. It's the one I tell myself I'm going to start working on in September every year when I'm scrambling to finish choreography in November.

Maybe next year I will.

But for some reason I only know how to work well under pressure.

You want something good from the dancers? Sure how about a five-minute group number for the opening act? Then a duet to follow, which isn't really a duet, but more like two solos brought together with a bonus of three girls doing a part for the bridge.

Make sense?

No? Guess you'd have to see it to understand.

Ok ok, how about a nice solo to finish?

And how about I whip it all together in less than two months?
Ha.

I'm a slave driver and a masochist at the same time.

I spent the last two weeks, scouring the city for the items I needed to build beautiful golden arcs, for the final pieces of their costume, for affordable mini, battery operated lights and  opalescent sequined ribbon.

My fingers are burned from hot glue and my body exhausted from a lack of rest.

But that's over and done with. It's the big day and I'm laying in bed thanking God for dry shampoo and clean tights.

I told the girls they needed to be there by 730. We go on at 930.

Two services. Four dances.

I need to dress them, do their make up and secure the crowns I designed and made for them.

A difficult task since they include a battery pack for the lights.

Yes I made them light up crowns.

Yes, you should want one for yourself.

I wash my face, brush my teeth and dress quickly.

I'm out the door before sunrise and I know that as I watch the dawn break in front of me, everything will be worth it as i watch my girls in full costume, with the music going and the stage lights up, and their hair twinkling, with the crowd enraptured.

These are the fruits of my labor and they are beautiful.

Christmas Musings

All is calm, all is bright.

My family doesn't "holiday" very well.

I do that a lot. Use a noun as a verb. It amuses me.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's-- we seem to mess it up each time when left to our own devices.

I wish I was more festive.

Or that I had more money to force us out of the house to a nice place that knows how to holiday better than we do.

It's Christmas.

So I walked my dog. More like let him walk me. At eight years old, my senior citizen dog is still stronger than I'll ever be.

I haven't walked him in a while. I'm a negligent parent.

Sometimes I like to imagine him as a writer. His first book, "my mommy is negligent and other stories."

He's truly my son. Even he enjoys writing short personal essays.

You know, in my fictionalized version of him.

I am not a morning person So I don't walk him then. I'm also tired and weary of the world by the time I get home.

Depression does that to you.

I feel like I talk about depression a lot.

I'm not a Debbie downer by any means. Only few people in real life know about my struggles with depression.

That's how it is.

I use humor and a bubbly nature to hide the demons I deal with when I'm by myself. When I am trying to force myself to do things.

Most of the world's funniest people struggle with depression and addiction. Why do you think we're so funny?

We have to cope.

Making people laugh and making people happy helps-- for a little while.

My friend Steve called me while I was shopping. I told him I finished reading the manuscript he sent me. He told me he was no writer of prose, I told him I was no poet. So we're even.

I told him it was weird but I like weird. I told him it made me uncomfortable, but good art does that sometimes.

His stories are disjointed, but connected. Does that make sense?

We talked a while, or rather I talked. I talked about the church leaders dinner where I almost cried because no one wanted to sit at the table with me and my sister. How people only sat there because they got there late and those were the last seats available. I told him about my love of random decorative wall art, some of the inspirational shit that looked pretty and was supposed to uplift. I rambled about Betsy Johnson and donut purses and how I'd wear it but had to draw the line at a milk carton purse.

I rambled until I realized I was rambling.

And I apologized.

He said it was ok. That's why he called. So I could ramble.

It stung a little.

So I'm walking my dog and it's Christmas, but it doesn't feel like Christmas because my family doesn't do Christmas right.

Are you following?

I get asked directions from strangers. I am non threatening.

In the city of Chicago, the city of big shoulders, the city of gun violence, the windy city, I am a girl in fake uggs and mittens wearing a wonder woman scarf walking her fluffy dog as he wears his Santa sweater.

I am not scary. I am inviting.

Ask me how to get somewhere I know how to go to all the places.

Maybe this new year I can learn how to holiday. Maybe I can be the one to make home feel like home.

The houses I pass are lit up like the Vegas strip and this brings me some comfort.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

A Writer's Q&A

Let’s play a game shall we?

I was tagged in a little question and answer post by Hyperpandemonium he’s new here, so check him out.

Haven’t done one of these in a while. So sure. Why not?

When did you first start writing? I started writing in the first grade when the teacher in charge of the gifted program at my school encouraged us to enter the young author’s competition. I wrote a story called “A Day Without a Friend,” a semi auto-biographical story about a friend moving away from the neighborhood. I ended up going to the young authors conference in my state. It was pretty cool. And I realized that people liked my stories. *Cue major ego trip*

I got that good English, yo.

Was being a writer something you always aspired to? Well, I am a writer. I think, therefore, I write. I breathe, therefore, I write. I have anxiety attacks inside a Target on the day before a dance performance, because an irresponsible parent tells me last minute her baby daddy didn’t give her money so I need to go out and buy them the shoes and tights that they need, therefore, I write. So I don’t aspire to be something I am.

But damn, if someone could pay me and possibly make some sort of movie blockbuster trilogy out of my stories, that would be real swell.

What genre do you write? Waaaaaaah! I hate this question. Because I’m not really sure what genre I write. I just think of a story and write. *insert embarrassed emoji here* I dunno, read my stories and you tell me.

Can you tell us a little about your current work in progress? Ah yes, my current work in progress… *shifty eyes* I just finished a month and a half of bi-weekly, two-hour, dance rehearsals with bonus Sunday and Saturday rehearsals, and costume making. I am working on nothing at the moment as I was busy with performance art. I do have three things on back burners (if I have three back burners I must have a giant stove).

1. A collection of short stories based on the emotional breakdown of a girl forced into court mandated therapy– a heart warming coming of age story.

2. A novel on being a salon slave. Based on my short lived career as a front desk receptionist at a high end salon.

3. A collection of travel essays based on my road trip across the U.S.

When did you start working on this project? 1. Many years ago… Probably around 5 or 6.

2. Three years ago.

3. A couple of months ago, but then I deleted my start on accident and became really discouraged and then really busy with choreography.

What was your first piece that you can remember writing? A Day Without a Friend. Circa 1993.

What was it about? Wait I went over this already…a childhood without social media. We did not have the power to keep in touch with people like today. Today, the magic of Facebook allows you to keep track of the guy you met outside of a club wearing a sombrero like nine years ago.

What’s the best part about writing? The ability to get the demons out of my head. I mean… What?

What’s the worst part about writing?Not having the energy or desire to do it when your brain is exhausted from a stressful job where you’re squeezed for knowledge all day long.

What’s the name of your favourite character and why? Genesis Varo, she’s funny, she’s vulnerable, she’s not afraid to be herself.

How much time a day/week do you get to write? That’s a thing? Time? Sometimes I write on my lunch break. Sometimes I lay in bed filling out questionnaires no one will read. That counts.

When is the best time for you to write (morning or night)? Whenever my brain feels like spewing forth words. I have no control over the muse.

Did you go to college for writing? I went to college for musical theater before switching to broadcast journalism. I wanted to join the fiction program. But I found the students to be rather pretentious. So, I guess, no?

What bothers you more: speeling errors; punctuation, errors, or errors for grammar? All of them. I tend to write quickly on my phone for blog posts, so I’ll have random auto correct errors, but I hate all errors. Mostly because of my journalism and copy editing background. But I’m not a dick about them. I’ll point them out so you can fix, not because I want to make you feel stupid.

What is the best writing advice that anyone has given you? Write what you know, the rest will come.

What advice would you give to another writer? Don’t compare yourself. I have that issue in writing and in life, and it can be incredibly detrimental.

What are your favourite writing sites or blogs that you turn to for help, tips or encouragement? I am in dire need of that. I used to have xanga. I had it since high school (i.e. I’ve been blogging for a long fucking time) and became very close with a group of writers on there. But it’s gone now. However I’m going to post this in our Friday fiction group and ask them to play.

Besides writing, what else do you enjoy doing? I teach dance. I sing and karaoke. I read… A lot. I love going to the movies and I work like a Hebrew slave in exchange for fantastic health insurance and enough money to kinda keep myself in the lifestyle I’ve grown accustom to.

What are your hobbies? Please see above. They also include breaking piñatas, popping bubble wrap, being fabulous while simultaneously being adorable, and dressing my dog up in children’s clothing.

What’s the best book you’ve read this year? That’s hard. I really enjoyed the Martian.

What’s the best movie you’ve seen this year? Um, my nerd heart is still experiencing the feels from Star Wars, The Force Awakens. So that’s what we’re going with.

What is your favourite book or series of all time? Stop asking me to choose my favorite child!!!! The chronicles of narnia, till we have faces, the big friendly giant, Harry potter, persuasion, pride and prejudice, the lord of the rings, the hobbit…I can keep going. I’ve read these all a million times.

Who is your favourite author? *cries in Spanish* so many I love so many. Stephen King, Sandra Cisneros, Jhumpa Lahiri, Sherman Alexie, JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Roald Dahl, Jane Austen…

What are your plans for the rest of the year in terms of your writing? Try?

Where else can we find you online? Too many places. You can read my tweets *cough* look at my selfies *cough* 

@travelbybubble

Bone Fragments

I was shattered.

Millions of pieces of myself were spread out far and wide-- quirks and habits and ideas now merely flotsam in a sea of self-doubt.

He had taken everything that I was and corrupted it.

He'd made me a weaker version of myself; a distorted version of myself I didn't recognize.

I was never enough.

And then without a word without a warning he was gone. After Manning his way into the far recesses of my fragile heart he disappeared.

He left me. A broken China doll that he was done playing with.

When you don't know who you are, how can you put yourself back together again?

What do you do when there are too many fragments of bone and skin and laughter that don't fit together anymore?

What becomes of a puzzle with too many missing pieces?

I wanted to let myself disappear-- to let myself be absorbed into the atmosphere and become nothing.

I wanted every piece of me that he'd ever touched, every dream I'd ever whispered to him, every emotion he ever elicited, to be destroyed forever.

But matter cannot be created or destroyed.

You can never stop being.

There are traces of you in everything you've touched.

My words were still flying in the wind, the trees are full of, "Remember that one time..." And sassy little quips.

And I remembered that even something beautiful can be created out broken pieces of glass.

And bit by bit I'm piecing myself together again. A colorful mosaic, whose design is ever changing.

I am being made new.

Eulogy for a Pup

Nothing will ever prepare you for death.

 Not time, not the knowledge of its inevitability, not illness--Death just happens.

 And no one's ever really happy about it, but we deal and that's the best we can do.

 It was a Friday evening in December. I was a freshman in highschool. I was standing in the kitchen doing God knows what (probably getting a snack after a long day at my nerd school) when my parents came home from work.

 I asked my mom about the puppy she'd promised us. Her coworker owned a beautiful chocolate brown chow chow and she'd just had puppies. She was going to buy one.

 Mom said they'd gone but he didn't have anymore dogs. She tried to keep a straight face as I groaned in disappointment, but couldn't as the front of her jacket started twitching. I ran to her and she unzipped her coat.

 There he was, this tiny, black, fuzzy, angry, little ball of fur, who smelled like death.

 "Why does he smell like that?"

 I still don't know. Maybe it was the kibble they gave him? Maybe he hadn't had a bath since he came out of the womb. Regardless he smelled pretty gross. There was no new puppy scent.

 One thing was for sure, the jerk hated being held. He was fighting against my mom and when I reached for him, the little brat hissed at me like the very spawn of Satan.

 I spent the whole first week of his life in our house with him. I learned he really liked milky cereal, he hated fuzzy slippers, he liked hiding under beds, and his tiny little teeth were as sharp as needles. But he was the cutest little evil thing.

 After days of trying to think up a name my mom suggested Baloo, like the big black bear from the Jungle Book and it worked.

 Eventually he faced the facts that he was stuck with us and allowed himself to be loved and squeezed and begrudgingly cuddled sometimes.

 He loved long walks, using every opportunity to scare the crap out of strangers. He especially hated men. The only man he liked was my dad, and only after dad established the fact that he was the alpha and Baloo resigned himself with being the beta. But there was no room for anyone else.

 He lived for car rides, sticking his head out of the window, letting the wind flow through his glorious mane. He looked like a mix between a lion and a bear. Cute but terrifying.

 He loved cheese and ice cream and mangoes and pizza and hot dogs straight off the grill and all the food he was probably not supposed to eat. But how can you deny those big puppy dog eyes?

 My mom used to make sure Baloo had an enchilada before making the rest of us one.

 The dog lived like a spoiled king.

 He was a part of our family: the short, furry, angry kid that didn't talk much, unless it was to bark when something annoyed him, or as he got older, when he was hungry.

 A dog's life is over far too quickly. At best you get maybe 10, 15, or if you're really lucky 20 years with them. And what is that compared to a human's lifetime?

 When you're holding a puppy you don't think about the future. You don't think about failing hips. Or diseases. Or muscle loss. You don't think about doggy incontinence. Or about carrying him up and down the stairs to go outside.

 But it's the harsh reality of old age.

 Baloo had a good life. He was strong. He was healthy. He was happy, in a crochety kind of way.

 Age crept up on him and in the end we knew we had to let him go. Even though I'd made him promise me a long time ago that I would be allowed to die first.

 I loved that dog. I love that dog.

 Thank you, Baloo. You were a very good boy.

Planets

I used to dream of traveling through space.

I'd dream of circling around the constellations and soaring across the night sky with the shooting stars.

I would sit at my window and stare up at the moon imagining myself bouncing around it's surface enjoying the weightlessness.

They bought me a book about the solar system.

I looked through the photos of each planet and decided I would travel to Saturn and dance on its rings.

I told you of my childhood dreams and all you could say was, "that's impossible."

I asked you why and you said, "because Saturn is made of hydrogen and helium."

I laughed at you, always so logical. "Well then, " I told him, "It'd be like dancing on air."

My Heart Hurts

I am 26-years-old.

Twenty-six.

In the grand scheme of things 26 years isn't really anything. It's just a blip in the timeline of the universe.

I feel like I'm barely even beginning to live.

Today I went to the funeral of the mother of one of my newest baby dancers. She was found in her apartment a week ago. She had overdosed.

I found out tonight she was only 26.

She was the same age as me. 

I think that's what's shocked me the most. No. that's not what shocked me the most. But I wasn't expecting us to be the same age.

She was born on Valentine's Day, 1986. 

She seemed older.

Not that that makes it any better. It makes me sadder. She looked older, she seemed older, maybe because she had led what I keep hearing everyone saying, a "rough life."  

When someone dies we forget all the bad.

It doesn't do us any good to dwell on it.

According to her family, her friends, she had an amazing life. She was an amazing person. She had everything going for her. She was so happy.

And yet it leaves me to wonder why we were all crowding the funeral home crying if everything was so fantastic?

We do not want to think about the grim realities. So we comfort ourselves with our happiest memories of the person we lost try our hardest not to think about why they are gone. It does not do us well to dwell on that pain.

I wish I had known her.

I think we would've gotten along really well.

I'd only met her a couple of times.

And that's all I'm ever going to know her and I am sorry for that, there is no changing that now.

But like Pris told me all we can do is love her little girl as much as we can.

Oh no.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no ohnoohnoohno.

Blue flashing lights in the rearview mirror.

Okay, don’t freak out. Don’t panic. Just chill and move over and maybe they’ll just pass you up.

Oh fuck. they pulled over too. Don’t look guilty. Calm down. You’re sweating! Stop looking so crazy they’re going to make you get out of the car if you don’t chill the fuck out. Oh my God! Why can’t you stop sweating?!

Shit. He’s knocking on the window. Lower the window. No, asshole, you don’t have to roll down the window, it’s not 1996! Press the button, press the button!

“Evening, miss.”

“Hello, officer.”

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No officer.”

“You were going 12 miles over the speed limit.”

“Really officer?”

“Did you not realize how fast you were going?”

“I was keeping up with traffic.”

“There is no traffic.”

“I know, because they’re all going faster than me.”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“It was a little funny...”

“License and registration please.”

“I’m sorry officer...Officer Finnley, I’ve had a long day at work and I just wanted to get home. I didn’t realize how fast I was going. I won’t do it again. Please just let me go this one time. Please, please please?”

“Where do you work, Melanie?”

“Umm... Diamonds.”

“Diamonds?”

“Diamonds.”

“The strip joint?”

“The strip joint.”

“You’re a stripper?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a stripper.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?

“Strippers tend to be a little more...”

“A little more what?”

“Uh, I don’t know, you know a little...um and a little....uh....and well you just look so wholesome.”

“Well, I’m a stripper.”

“That’s too bad, miss.”

“It’s not all that bad. It pays the bills.”

“You should be in college or something.”

“Geez, dad. look are you going to give me a ticket or not?”

“No, you’re off the hook just this once.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Just ease up on the gas, okay? That’s how people get in accidents.” “Of course. Oh wow. Thanks so much. You know what? You should come on by Diamonds, I’ll make sure you get a free lap dance.”

“Um, that won’t be necessary.”

“Well, the offer’s good.”

“Thanks. Head on home then. Be safe.”

“Thank you. Good night, officer.”

Smile. Put up the window. Turn on the car. Drive off normally. He’s pulling out too. Oh God, please don’t let him follow you home. Oh, yes, he’s flipping a U. Oh thank God. We’re in the home stretch.

Good job! First run in with the law and you didn’t shit your pants.

Morning After

And then I woke up incredibly concerned about squirrels...

I sat on the bed waiting for her to come back.

My neck hurt. I must have slept wrong.

I looked around the room. It was bare. White walls. No sign of anyone actually living here other than our clothes on the floor and a pack of cigarettes on a dresser.

Too empty. Too cold. A room like this would drive me insane.

I wrapped myself in a sheet and thought about walking to the kitchen for some coffee, but then I remembered she was a tea kind of girl.

Seems unnatural.

“Good morning.”

I looked up, she walked in towel drying her short blonde bob.

“Hi.”

She walked over to her closet and pulled out a pair of slacks and a blazer.

“The shower’s free, you can go ahead and use it.”

“That’s ok.” I just sat there watching her get ready.

“So, are going to get dressed then?”

“I guess.”

I didn’t move. She was moving around the room so quickly. She had just come out of the shower and she was practically ready and out the door. And I just sat there suddenly aware of my nakedness.

“You talk in your sleep you know.” She looked at me while putting on one of her earrings.

“Do I?” I knew I did. My old roommates used to tell me I’d mumble and sigh and moan in my sleep. It kind of freaked them out.

“Yeah. You told me to close the window because the squirrels would come in.” Oh God. I thought I had dreamt that. She saw the look on my face and laughed. She grabbed the cigarettes off the dresser and pulled out a lighter from inside one of the drawers. “Do you want one?”

She pulled out two cigarettes, put one in her mouth and offered me the other one.

I accepted. She lit hers and I reached for the lighter.

“A lady never lights her own cigarette.” She sat down on the bed next to me.

“What about you?”

“I’m not a lady.” She winked and I rolled my eyes. She lit my cigarette and I took my first puff. “Sweetie,” she started and then took a long drag. She blew a couple of smoke rings and turned back towards me. “You’re gonna need to get dressed and you’re gonna need to leave.”

I just held my cigarette. I didn’t really want to smoke it. I just needed something for my hand to do.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” I handed her my cigarette and went to get up. She held onto my sheet. “I can’t get up if you don’t let go.”

“Yes you can.”

“Please let go.”

“Oh you’re no fun.” She let go of the sheet and I got up and picked up my things. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

I did. But it seemed stupid on my part. She’d seen all of me. Her hands and lips had made their way over the entirety of my body. To be shy about dressing in front of her just seemed silly at this point.

“No. I’m sorry I’m just not good at this sort of thing.”

She stood up and walked over. “Of course not. You’re straight.” She laughed and pulled at my sheet again. I didn’t fight her this time and let it drop. “See,” she whispered in my ear, “not a big deal. Now put your dress on love, I’m gonna be late for work.”

I put it on and shoved my underwear in my purse.

New Year

When you have several blogs floating around the great expanse of the World Wide Web (does anyone even call it that anymore? Saying that makes me feel ever so slightly nostalgic) you forget about half of them. Or at least I forget about this one, even though it's the one I have listed on my twitter bio.

I guess this is the only one I could say I would fully devote to writing. I have two other blogs, a tumblr, which hardly counts since I use it mostly to reblog photos of Tom Hiddleston and other sexy actors and a xanga which is like an old private diary you start as a teenager and don't know how to give up.

And no, I won't let you read it.

Anyway.

I've resolved to write more in this new year and to start submitting my work different places and sharing my writing with more people outside of the small circle of friends that usually say, "that was great I really liked it." Because as nice as it feels to have someone say that they like what you write, sometimes you need to hear that they didn't so you can think about what you need to improve.

I guess another reason I don't let people read what I write is because I am at my core incredibly shy. It is easy to be silly and funny and outgoing, because even though I am those things, it is easier to put on a good show by being that person than to really let people in and show them everything that is real.

As the years pass I am trying to be less guarded.

So I'll start the year by letting you read the things I spend hours scribbling into my notebooks. The funny, the sad, the dirty, the morbid, the creepy, the hopeful, the optimistic, and the painful. And I hope that you'll enjoy some of it and I hope that I can grow from it.

Happy reading,

Jenny

Testing out the magic of apps

Does this work?

If so, do you see those ppl with me?

I love them

Best Dog Ever? Yes.

The best decision I made was to smuggle in this white fluffy monster into our house one January.

Four years ago today a white, floppy-eared, speckled and lumpy gutted doggy named Linus was born.

Happy Birthday little man!

There's supposed to be some magic at play today

It's 11/11/11.

It's major somehow, and yet at the same time, it's just another day.

I even missed my chance to wish at 11:11 am.

Fail at wishing.

Instead I am busy writing a letter to a dead girl.

A friend of mine is celebrating the birthday of her dead daughter. Had she not taken her own life as a teenager, she would have been 23-years-old today.

The loss of a child is something I cannot even imagine.

The loss of a child whose pain was so much so that she couldn't bear to live anymore? Heartbreaking.

My friend, J, takes her cards and presents and lays it at a little memorial.

So I write.

I write for my friend a letter to her daughter, and hope that J can somehow take comfort in knowing that there are people who are thinking of her daughter even though she is gone.

The way we mourn for our own is different for everyone.

I do not speak to the dead. For me they are too far beyond my reach for them to even hear what I have to say.

These gestures, of memorials and letters and gifts are to bring us comfort. They are for us to make sure we never forget. These words are for the living.

And so I write.

But maybe, with whatever magic is at at play today, my message might get through somehow.

Strawberries, Angels and Panda Pumpkin Carving

All things considered this weekend was a lot of fun.

And the Rangers won last night. The series is tied 2-2. Keep it up rangers!

Also...I'm really bad at HTML editing for pictures. So they're kinda just lumped in there. Ha.