Keep Talking: #96 Out Of Control Outsider (Beginning of new stor...

Keep Talking: #96 Out Of Control Outsider (Beginning of new stor...: When did I start losing control? I think it all started when I began to wonder if I had control of anything at all. I deci...

#96 Out Of Control Outsider (Beginning of new story)

When did I start losing control? I think it all started when I began to wonder if I had control of anything at all. I decided that it all could fit together, all the pieces of my life as kid. The pieces inside my head like a jigsaw puzzle without a rubric of consciousness or awareness. Then rules became a “thing”; Right, wrong, bad, good, pretty, ugly, smart, dumb, funny, tragic.  Binaries started to pervade my little life and pushed me around my childhood playpen until it broke open. The playpen became an open field with no boundaries or edges to contain my feelings, which were adolescent fierce and powerful. Maybe it began in 1972 when my family moved for the first time. I was in fifth grade and it sucked. Yet, I made friends after I freaked out over leaving New Jersey. Herbert Hoover Elementary School in Harrisburg, PA.was more diverse than Walter Stillman Elementary in Tenafly, NJ. It was ok moving into a giant brand new house with balconies and uninhabited fields on all sides of our property. I wandered around alone, next to a babbling brook and various sites where more houses were under construction in the subdivision. Dug up trenches, pipes to crawl through, wheat fields with dirt bike paths engraved and flattened to follow without any idea where they led. I walked and wandered.

When my kid started middle school in the city, I couldn’t compare what my life was to hers. No fields, paths, pipes or places to be completely alone. No strange transitions from school to school with new kids. Middle school funneled the old elementary kids and new kids into a giant building on 76^th Street. She fit into her classes, well, good enough. No tantrums set off by feeling uprooted and displaced by her parents. Yet, I cannot detach from my teen years. They are in my bones, my dreams and fears. I don’t want to lay them onto her, but the haunting remnants of shards of glass, dirty sidewalks and misfits lurk. I always spot the misfits and see myself in them.  Identifying pieces missing are my way of looking to become complete. It isn’t possible, but maybe that’s where this story began when it was, in fact, the recognition that things were not in my control. I've heard that adolescence is a time when abstract thinking becomes possible. Perhaps, it is the advent of this that also makes questioning becomes interminable and, well, impossible.

Everywhere I looks are triggers which lead me down paths of exploration and instead of discovering something the definitive, I find the infinite: no control.

#95 Car Wreck

I've been thinking a lot about ice skating on oil. Not just any oil, but a very high quality deep grassy green olive oil. It will cover an entire skating rink and will smell fantastic. Of course, it will be incredibly slippery. Given the fact that I cannot ice skate, this activity will be especially innervating and dangerous. I will be able to stand up and slide elegantly with foot over foot steps which will allow me to experience something I have never done before. When I have skated in the past it was not fun. It was humiliating and exhausting. I repeatedly fell on my ass and it hurt. Everyone else dancing effortlessly around me suspended in midair with placid smiling faces.

So, I will join them and it will be fantastic. I will not fall on my ass and will master olive oil skating.

Today my elderly parents got into a car wreck. The sun blocked both their eyes and they ran a stop sign. When the EMT came to extract the elderly woman from the vehicle they hit he told them this:
"It's okay. Everyone has accidents."
This was, of course, utter bullshit. Not everyone has accidents and minimizing a car crash, even one when nobody gets killed, isn't a good idea. Especially when delivered by a well meaning EMT to an old couple: a couple who should no longer be driving.

My father never calls me Lizzy. When he minimized the crash over the phone he called me Lizzy twice. What the fuck. Sorry, that is mighty adorable but won't distract me from the fact at hand.

I never want you to drive a car again.

I don't know exactly how to tell you this, but someone has to do it. The car is wrecked and you will have to cab home or to your concert or dinner date or whatever it is. Boo hoo. Fucking boo hoo and excuse me while I go for a skate on my ultra premium olive oil ice skating rink so I can think about what I will say to you to break your hearts with the truth. The truth is, it's over. The car is in the shop and when it's fixed it goes back to the volkswagen dealership and you will get rid of the lease and open an uber account.

If I sound mad, it's because I am. I hate having to be the one to tell you the facts of late life and burst your Golden Years balloon. It disgusts me to have to pull the plug on one aspect of your independence so you don't risk killing yourself or anyone else, again.
Frankly, it sucks to be here.

So, even if I cannot ice-skate I will think about it a lot. I will be out there with my smile and close my eyes and ease into the wind with the music playing. I will be lost and you can watch me fly, because I've never done it ever before and it will be really great.

I'll call you tomorrow.

#95 Car Wreck

I've been thinking a lot about ice skating on oil. Not just any oil, but a very high quality deep grassy green olive oil. It will cover an entire skating rink and will smell fantastic. Of course, it will be incredibly slippery. Given the fact that I cannot ice skate, this activity will be especially innervating and dangerous. I will be able to stand up and slide elegantly with foot over foot steps which will allow me to experience something I have never done before. When I have skated in the past it was not fun. It was humiliating and exhausting. I repeatedly fell on my ass and it hurt. Everyone else dancing effortlessly around me suspended in midair with placid smiling faces.

So, I will join them and it will be fantastic. I will not fall on my ass and will master olive oil skating.

Today my elderly parents got into a car wreck. The sun blocked both their eyes and they ran a stop sign. When the EMT came to extract the elderly woman from the vehicle they hit he told them this:
"It's okay. Everyone has accidents."
This was, of course, utter bullshit. Not everyone has accidents and minimizing a car crash, even one when nobody gets killed, isn't a good idea. Especially when delivered by a well meaning EMT to an old couple: a couple who should no longer be driving.

My father never calls me Lizzy. When he minimized the crash over the phone he called me Lizzy twice. What the fuck. Sorry, that is mighty adorable but won't distract me from the fact at hand.
I never want you to drive a car again.

I don't know exactly how to tell you this, but someone has to do it. The car is wrecked and you will have to cab home or to your concern or dinner date or whatever it is. Boo hoo. Fucking boo hoo and excuse me while I go for a skate on my ultra premium olive oil ice skating rink so I can think about what I will say to you to break your hearts with the truth. The truth is, it's over. The car is in the shop and when it's fixed it goes back to the volkswagen dealership and you will get rid of the lease and open an uber account.

If I sound mad, it's because I am. I hate having to be the one to tell you the facts of late life and burst your Golden Years balloon. It disgusts me to have to pull the plug on one aspect of your independence so you don't risk killing yourself or anyone else, again.
Frankly, it sucks to be here.

So, even if I cannot ice-skate I will think about it a lot. I will be out there with my smile and close my eyes and ease into the wind with the music playing. I will be lost and you can watch me fly, because I've never done it ever before and it will be really great.

I'll call you tomorrow.

#94 Christmas Ornaments and Summer Dreams

I remember opening a box of old ornaments. They were aligned perfectly: glass ball globes reflecting everything like tiny fun house mirrors. My face is bent in green, pink and red with tiny fish hooks coming from the top of my head. Some are broken like a tiny shark's mouth open and able to cut if handled wrong. They are from the 1960's and not valuable probably. There is a glued saying on some of them in script: "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" slanted across the center of the ball with a cute sled or ice skate underneath the cursive words. The words are white and resemble old calcified snow.

Some just have evergreen trees and dust.  About a half dozen boxes are stored in Gramm's basement filled with other holiday ornaments made by the boys, like a felt elf or a twisted candy cane made of pipe cleaners. They will be placed on the branches of the tree and I can't decide if I should throw out the old storage boxes which have classic vodka and whisky logos decorating the sides. Duct tape and masking tape has been reused over and over and no longer stick to the cardboard. It's time to consolidate the ornaments: the old and new in one box.

It's summer and I enter a pet food store and a large man is speaking loud, excited and fast. I glance over and see he has a wide band aide with cotton wedged underneath sticking out like fake snow. Recent blood work and a quick patch up job after it was done, I figure. I get on line with some cat treats and catch the tail end of his animated conversation with someone who exits. I realize that I want to block him out.

"Have a great day!" He says after them in a manic joyful tone.
He looks me over.
"You're a doctor!" (I'm wearing greenish baggy pants like scrubs).
"Nope!"
"You're a lawyer!"
"Nope!" I'm perplexed now. Where did that assessment come from.
I see he needs something from me.
"I'm in mental health."
I pray this is enough for him.

He has checked out and I put the cat treats on the counter and pull out cash to pay.

"There are a lot of people who need you!" He jokes.
I've heard this many times before and wonder, again, if he was recently hospitalized.
I smile.

"I was diagnosed with kidney cancer 2 years ago and today I had my most recent blood work and I am CANCER FREE!"
He is bursting with life. Bursting with panic joy exultation desire freedom. A gift for a boy on Christmas morning. He won the lottery today.
He will live.

"I'm so happy for you! Have a fantastic day!"
Inside my head I want to say more about myself and my life and my family and I don't. He floats out the door smiling ear to ear. I feel touched by a magical ornament that might break but is suspended like a fragile star giving off and reflecting life.

#93 Alma Thomas's Paintings and an Electrical Fire in New Jersey

When I opened up The New Yorker Magazine a week ago I saw a photo of a painting. It was a painting I recognized immediately: not the particular image, but the artist's work.

When I was a little girl I had a friend who had a very, very fancy house. Her father was eccentric and collected art, large wolfish dogs and sports cars. One of his cars was a MG which was a tiny convertible with a roll bar in the back seat. I rode in the frame of that roll bar once. I got a ride. I was little and the bar slammed against my head when he sped over bumps and it didn't feel fun or safe. I couldn't wait to get out of that car. It looked so appealing and fun but was really the opposite: I think all my hair was knotted or had to be untangled from the roll bar to extract myself from the vehicle. I am exaggerating of course.

I am sure I cried and felt like a baby which is not an exaggeration at all.

When I sat on the brown velvet couch in their split-level house I breathed in the dog breath from their giant German Shepard. His mouth was so big and his tongue so pink and long that his breathing echoed everywhere. I was able to pet his long nose without getting bitten but his fur clung to everything. Even hidden in the white carpet with the brown border which mimicked the design of the tile dining room floor. All custom stuff.

In my perpetual state of panic and curiosity I looked at the artwork. On one particular day I was sitting in the toilet in the downstairs bathroom and a bolt of lighting struck a tree in their back yard which had a power line connected to it. Every one started to scream:
"fire! fire!"
The dog was going wild and everyone ran out of the house. Smoke was everywhere and I was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom adjacent to the living room which held my favorite work of art: yes, the painting in the magazine. The one by Alma Thomas. In fact, as I remember it, the wall which held the painting was on the other side of the same wall which held the toilet, so when the lightning struck I guess I could say the painting and I were energetically connected for a moment.

I panicked and ran outside with my underpants down which really wasn't all that different than how I felt in that house almost all the time (with the exception of sitting in the kitchen watching Bewitched and eating tuna salad and drinking Tab which was an entirely calming experience). I ran out and ladies were yelling, "Liz!Liz!Liz" or so I'd like to believe they remembered I was peeing and the firemen came and everything was back to normal.

Ha!

So there was Alma's painting on the wall. It was modern, colorful and reminded me of something a child could do, except she nailed the rainbow colors and even brushstrokes better than any kid I knew. It was 70's stuff like rainbows and Peter Max colors and big. I sat there after the fire and became one with the purple horizontal hyphen-stripes. I am standing on a purple line and playing hopscotch. Purple purple step step not on a crack and then blue blue blue. Red red red. Pink pink pink. Orange orange orange. Like a Candy Land board but so much better. That looks like a sunrise through the rainbow.

Alma was an African American woman who was born in the late 1800's. This painting was in my friend's fancy living room in New Jersey. I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know who painted it. I didn't care except whoever did had something really great going on. Whoever that kid or person was. I was grateful that painting was there for me.

After the divorce my friend's mom got rid of her ex-husband's art collection and re-did the whole place. I never saw that painting again until last week at the Studio Museum in Harlem. I went to Alma's exhibit in 2016.  I was mesmerized the minute I entered the room. Her paintings are so beautiful and alive. There were different styles and patterns and a variety of bold colors. I was singing in my heart and I felt like it somehow belonged to me.. The whole place.

Across the room was the painting from New Jersey. I wasn't sure at first but it was distinctly different from the others. I stood there and wished I could touch it.
The title is: "Apollo 12 Splash Down". It was painted in 1970.
It was lent to the museum by a gallery.
It seems like nobody owns it now.

Keep Talking: #92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.

Keep Talking: #92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.: Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden  to a class trip for my 7...

#92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.

Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden when a cab pulled over. It was one of those lime green cabs, the ones you cannot get unless you live above 96th Street. Frantically waving arms protrude from the cab. 'Who is that?' I think.
It's another mom.
"Get in!" she says as she throws the door open and moves aside to give me room in the back seat. Her daughter is sitting next to her.
"Why?"
"I have to talk to you!"
So I get in. I say hi to her daughter who isn't fazed by her mom's behavior.
I'm not either.
"So, how can I help you?" I ask.
"I want to know about the tutor."
I start to tell her and about 30 seconds later the cab pulls over to the corner where her daughter and I get out. We are a block from school.
"Where are you going?"
"To work. I'm staying in the cab. I'll call you!"

I get out of the cab and walk the block and into the lobby of the school. I don't know where her daughter went.

There is a mom in the lobby talking to the security guard. She has a sticker on her shirt so she has officially signed in.
"Are you here for the field trip?" She asks.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes."
Silence.
I start to make small talk. What class is your kid in? And a few other questions to try to connect.

"Do you have any other kids?"

Well, this just about throws her into a tailspin.
"One is already too much! With all my traveling for work!"
Silence.
"Oh. What do you do?" I wonder.
"One thing I do is consult for Homeland Security."
I'm curious but am not sure if that was code for don't ask. I ask and she freely launches into the topic of her work history. The happy faucet is on and flowing fast.
Within 60 seconds I've learned a lot. She tells me how she was in the military and actually "was a Spook"
A Spook.
I feel like an idiot.
"What's a Spook?"
"A spy."
I'm intrigued, as planned.

Then her 13-year-old walks over and they start to argue about whether or not she remembered to pack a water bottle for the trip.

I walked away and hear from behind me: "Bye, Liz!"

Her name is Ginny.  Later that day when we pass each other on the trip we say, "Hi Ginny!" or "Hi Liz!" like we've known each other for years.

The trip was to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. There are many things I can tell you about going on three (3 transfers) subways with 25 7th graders. Things that would appall their parents. Things that would appall anyone: the dramatic flirting and littering. The addictive use of electronics. The nose picking and bugger eating. The smells and swearing. The self-centered preening and grandstanding for what appears to be nothing, because they all do it and so there really isn't an audience. Only annoyed chaperones who wonder about herding cats and the possibility of leaving them (to go meditate under a Bonsai) or simply wander off like a kooky irresponsible adult because they are actually old enough to find their way back to safety, if necessary. They deserved some impromptu outdoor Scout training to whip them into shape. To be fair not all of them were like that. Most were good or compliant enough, but the rotten apples spoiled the whole barrel of fun.

The truth comes out when the girls who are projectile-venom-eye-stare-beings walked into the rose garden and transform completely. It is as if they are set free from the hormonal gravitational forces which trap them. They begin to dance between the rows of crimson,  pink, yellow and purple bushes and smile. Laugh. Joyfully from one beautiful flower specimen to the next like large bumble bees who have found intoxicating pollen while connecting with nature and invisible scents which celebrate something beautiful which has long since been forgotten.

They are a joy to be with.

I spy them becoming little girls again: princesses who don't want to leave the garden. The white fences and rose festooned trellises are a room to expand and just be free.

All in a day's work.

Keep Talking: #91 MRI: What's Inside There?

Keep Talking: #91 MRI: What's Inside There?: It is time for my annual MRI . West Side Radiology at Columbus Circle. This is my second year at this location. I used to go to Park Aven...

#91 MRI: What's Inside There?

It is time for my annual MRI . West Side Radiology at Columbus Circle.

This is my second year at this location. I used to go to Park Avenue Radiology.

I used to be afraid of them and I'm not anymore.

I will not get into the whole medical thing. I will get into the minutia of the process itself. For example, there is a tiny dressing room and they use a DVD as a key chain. You leave everything in the little room which is like a personal locker. 

"Take everything off except your underpants."

"Can I wear my socks?"

"Yes."

I leave everything in the closet/ locker and sit wrapped in a paper towel robe in an open area. A woman who obviously just finished her MRI looks at me as she opens her closet locker.

"No wedding rings. Nothing."

Why does she have to use that tone. 

I start to pull off my rings and the technician comes back and tells me I can keep them on. I follow her to the MRI room which is freezing. She gives me a blanket and sets me up so they can put the contrast in. She gives me earplugs and then inserts the needle into my arm and then tells me to lie down on my stomach. She places the blanket over me so I can stay warm. Evidently, MRI machines get very hot so they keep the room temperature very cool. There is a place for my breasts to droop down- like two special little boob compartments. Arms straight ahead like Super Man. I rest my forehead on a little soft spongy thing which has a mirror in it so I can see what is going on in part of the room. This nice invention is so we don't fee claustrophobic. It's a really neat addition.

I am prone and relaxed. I feel the tray that I am resting on move into the tube. They speak through a microphone, "first will be 3 minutes."  Clank clank clank. Click click click. Clank. Pause. Clank clank click. My mind wanders to a therapist I had years ago who told me that she loved the sounds of the MRI machine because they remind her of avant garde music. I think of her face smiling with a gap between her front teeth. I remember that she died of cancer three months ago. I imagined her in this machine. Relaxing and smiling as she is absorbed by the music. I envy her freedom to enjoy this. I start to think about why she needed the MRI and if it had anything to do with the cancer that eventually killed her. Then I decide not to think about her.

The machine is like being in the bathtub. Nobody bothers you. You can't do anything except be still and breath. Relax. Time will pass.

Clink clink clink. "Now 2 minutes." I look into the mirror and see some part of my arm reflected. I am tempted to wiggle my fingers. I don't. I see the top of someone's head in the other room and wonder what they are looking at on their computer screen. My boobs? What do they see? Maybe they are talking about what they should order for lunch. That's pretty much what I think. They'll probably do a Seamless delivery. Maybe Mexican today.

"Now we will start the drip." I remember that there is a cool sensation that will start to enter my arm. I get scared for a moment that the line might have a bubble in it and I could die. How long would that take? Will I feel woozy first and then black out? Nobody would even know until the procedure was over and how embarrassing that would be for the technician who inserted the line into my arm. Then I decide that is really ridiculous and that will not be the way I will die. The fact that I have been able to push the neurotic thoughts aside indicates that my years of therapy have been productive. I'm happy about that and then I start to think about my therapist. A good soul. 

Then I push that aside and the procedure is over. The technician comes in and helps me up. I don't care if the guy sees my breasts or not, but I act modest and cover myself up. I go back to my closet/locker with my DVD keychain and pass a woman wrapped in a paper towel robe and socks. I think about her breasts for a moment and hope she is okay.   I know I am. So many breast out there. So many which aren't okay. I silently wish her luck.

Keep Talking: #90 Swimming Pool

Keep Talking: #90 Swimming Pool: There is a lot of intimacy which takes place in and around a swimming pool. There are years and years of memories which add up like an easy ...

#90 Swimming Pool

There is a lot of intimacy which takes place in and around a swimming pool. There are years and years of memories which add up like an easy math equation without powers, fractions and decimals. Memory: It's easily blue and clear. The light will hit the surface in a memorable way which will imprint happiness in your reptilian brain: all children get excited about a pool.  It can be the shittiest pool on earth and kids will love it. Twenty five years after that vacation to the Jersey Shore where your parents couldn't afford a hotel room or a condo rental you and your four siblings slept on the floor of a motel room the size of two double beds and all you could dream about was getting up in the morning and jumping into the pool. Like being in the best cartoon you could imagine being in you can transform yourself as soon as you submerge your head. Everything is blue quiet and slow. Holding your breath for this purpose is an an amazing experience to add to your life. Diving, somersaulting and hardstanding underwater all serve a fantastic function because it is the first time you will understand that you defy gravity. You will always wish you have gills and can breathe underwater.
Always. That will never change.

When you look across the pool and see a large man belly flop dive into the pool followed by two small boys who have the same exact dive and the same smaller version of his body you know they have entered the realm of memory. They look like a school of fish following each other around and they will create this pattern for generations to come. Weird diving belly first with feet kicking into the air. They should all break their necks but they don't. This species has an awkward style of survival. They splash each other and dunk. The smallest one climbs the metal ladder and runs on the concrete leaving a trail of wet footprints. Splatting his way around the pool to grab a giant orange noodle. His swim trunks creep down his backside and his tiny six pack is heaving to grab more air, refueling his lungs before getting right back in.

Splatting wet every which way with snot running out of his nose and a huge grin on his face.

There is another dad with his son between his legs. He is carefully teaching him how to tie the knot around the waist of his swim trunks. They peer down together. Quietly and carefully. Patiently. This boy will remember how patient his dad was: not exactly, but it will remain stored in his heart whenever he sees a swimming pool the remainder of his life. Absolutely, he will.

A mom hates getting her suit on and when she does she hates getting into water that is less than perfect bathtub temperature. Her daughter begs her to get into the pool.
"Mom, you never swim with me!"
Mom eases herself slowly down the cobalt tile steps. You know exactly what this looks like: she is sucking in her stomach and holding her bent elbows parallel to the surface inching her way in to not get cold too quickly. Pretending she has control.
"Brrrrrrrrr!"
"Just get in! You'll get used to it!"

And like the little whale she believes she is she dives in and breaches like her mom did 10,000 years ago. Sneaking below the surface she grabs her daughter who squeals with laughter and sweet joy. Wrapping her legs around her waist she becomes light as a feather. Her daughter holds her big mom afloat on the surface of the pool. Holding her and balancing her as the sun caresses her face.

This will be inside them forever and ever.

Keep Talking: #89 Boat Tethered To Dock

Keep Talking: #89 Boat Tethered To Dock: I am a wooden boat. I never realized this before. I am a row boat not a canoe. The water is rough and the dock is white. I am tethered to th...

#89 Boat Tethered To Dock

I am a wooden boat. I never realized this before. I am a row boat not a canoe. The water is rough and the dock is white. I am tethered to the dock by a thick rope and the waves swell and knock me into the slip and around and around and I bob up and down. I am not seasick, but might be. For the moment I am settling in to my slip yet know it isn't possible to stay here.

I didn't even notice this before, but it is here.

Docked and tethered.

My paint is peeling and I am not leaking. Water isn't coming into me and I don't show signs of sinking even though I am uncomfortable swaying. Up and down; back and forth. I guess it is time to get on and go for a ride.

It's getting dark as the sun sets. The light is lovely on my bow and stern. Not sure which is front or back.

My oars are missing and I know there is a way to locate them. Absolutely. No problem.
There are two life vests: one for each of us.

The rope is attached to the dock and it isn't yet possible to untie the knot that keeps me tethered.

I'm not ready to leave. I'll stay here for now and watch the tide come in.

Keep Talking: #88 Is There An Algorithm For This?

Keep Talking: #88 Is There An Algorithm For This?: There you are on the street. I was sure I passed your building. I knew I would  not see you. I fucking passed your building. I did. Ther...

#88 Is There An Algorithm For This?

There you are on the street. I was sure I passed your building. I knew I would  not see you.
I fucking passed your building.
I did.

There is a  homeless man who is hoisting a large duffle bag onto his back. He is deep black and his bare calves are yelling fantastic muscles. He is dirty and raw.  Wearing shorts on a cold day. He is wearing a t-shirt and has purpose.

WE both walk past him.

I see you.
There is no one else on the sidewalk except
US
 57th street in the early afternoon.
You avert your gaze to
Him
His excellence
The homeless man is very very very
important.
That is the algorithm.
That's what works.

Your face is soft and I remember love
I know you are no longer soft.
You are mean


Spa Castle is a great place to contract germs and maybe relax on the rooftop on 57th Street in a hot tub meant for 1: 104 degrees Fahrenheit. I look up at the buildings and the cavernous important real estate. Bubbles are pulsating against my back and it there are dark windows in every direction.

Hundreds of dark windows.

 I see a lit room and a tiny person in green scrubs inside next to a floor lamp. There is a hand on his hip and I don't know what he is doing and I wonder if he can see me, us , on the roof sitting in a steaming bubbling tub of hot water.

Boiling over.

Keep Talking: #87 Menagerie: Year of the Monkey.

Keep Talking: #87 Menagerie: Year of the Monkey.: It's been a while. Thank you for waiting. We really appreciate it. We have been sitting here for, um well, a long time. Sitting on the...

#87 Menagerie: Year of the Monkey.

It's been a while. Thank you for waiting. We really appreciate it.

We have been sitting here for, um well, a long time. We sit on these rocks, leap around and pick insects out of our baby's fur and eat them. Groom, sun, relax and make mischief. At the highest point of our rock island we can see the Sea Lions putting on their show for you. They dive, turn over, flap and clap for treats and laughs. Then they swim neurotic laps and wait for you to leave (which eventually you will) when the show is over. Then you come over to us. We have water, too, but don't have to embarrass ourselves by putting on a show for you.

We are Snow Monkeys and You are our show.

You crack us up to bits.

We think you are ridiculous when you hold your young children atop the glass and metal railing. If you drop your baby in our pool we promise not to hurt her. We might swim over and fish her out, carry her to the top of the rock and pick insects from her furry head and eat her juice box. She won't mind and it will make a great story for all of us. You are so predictable.

Our particular primate species originates in Japan. Don't mix us up with the Red Pandas who are also from a temperate Asian climate, but not Japan. They like to climb trees and attract a lot of attention because people think they are cute. Anything called 'a Panda' is cute. Good branding.

Back to us.

We have a few secrets to share with you. The Central Park Zoo began as an animal menagerie in the 1850's. Things have shaped up over time and animals are given what appear to be "authentic habitats" which is a joke, because what non-domesticated animal likes living in a habitat the size of a two bedroom apartment?

It isn't natural.

We have tackled that problem by leaving the zoo at night, taking the subway downtown to South Ferry where we travel (by Water Taxi) to the Statue of Liberty. We have our connections and won't say how and who, but we get inside Lady Liberty and scamper up the steel stairs to her crown. We sit on her torch and watch the boats sail by, the planes land at JFK and the city sparkle like a menagerie.

You are ridiculous.

Keep Talking: # 86 Pure White Fur

Keep Talking: # 86 Pure White Fur: Do you have a crystal ball? We do and will tell you within a hair how much snow you will get. This will not be ordinary snow, but blizza...

# 86 Pure White Fur

Do you have a crystal ball?

We do and will tell you, within a hair, how much snow you will get.
This will not be ordinary snow, but blizzard snow. It will pour and pour like an endless bottle of champagne into a delicate flute. It will bubble and flow and instead of gold it will be white. Pure, endless, bubbly white which has a frothy cap: it will tickle your nose.

It is impossible for snow to fall into a champagne flute without spilling over and will, ultimately, bury the glass completely. Flutes will sit on the reservoir path buried in snow. Rows and rows of flutes fill with sparkling blizzard snow. No one will see, hear or feel them break when they walk on the snowy path which is hip deep. It is completely silent and blinding white; like walking into the middle of a cloud in the middle of a city. You will think it is a dream except the ducks floating by are dusted with snow and they are wading faster than you can walk.

They are real.

You have had a hard day (week, month, year) and sleeping will not remedy the residual ache. You come back inside after crushing thousands of champagne flutes on the path and the wind has scratched your face numb. Like cat cow cat cow you start to forget to think and it's pretty cool.

There is no forecast to predict this feeling.

You walk into your room and sitting on the bed are two cats covered with snow. Their ears are peeking out and they stare at you and blink in morse code (which you cannot decipher, but know that they aren't thinking either).

They look at you and stretch. Their bellies are pure, white, innocent fur.

Snow. Fur.

They cannot speak and you know that you are still in the cloud and the endless kneading paws will scratch the surface of your skin and will not leave a trace. You are kissed over and over and over.

Keep Talking: The Emotional Blender: The Hemlock Society #3

Keep Talking: The Emotional Blender: The Hemlock Society #3: When you first arrive your mom has those Wonder Woman deflector cuffs which cast emotions away like a flash of lightning. Zing zing zing! &q...

The Emotional Blender: The Hemlock Society #3

When you first arrive your mom has those Wonder Woman deflector cuffs which cast emotions away like a flash of lightning. Zing zing zing! "Wow", you think, "that is truly impressive!"All those years you didn't realize how strong she really was, at least not regarding the strength and accuracy of deflecting. The blender is out and the smoothie isn't really smooth quite yet because what is tossed into the blender before you activate the pulse button is sharp shard-like chips of broken glass. They are fairly small and you cannot see them unless the light hits them in just the right way and they glimmer like diamonds. Don't worry, they will blend in so well you won't have to worry about cutting the interior of your mouth or digestive tract. Where do they come from? Un-labeled leftovers in the fridge. These can be added to the smoothie.

You can also add frozen blueberries, mango, pineapple and a fresh banana. These are labelled with dates so you know how long they have been in the freezer. You can also add orange juice and vodka and call it a Hillsboro Hurricane. Everyone loves it.

What will bleed, just a tiny bit, is your heart. There won't be any traces of blood, so no need to worry about staining the white tile floor. Why will your heart bleed? Because the anxiety level is extreme and because of the Wonder Woman deflection maneuver you'll never quite catch the exact moment  the stealth anxiety makes its appearance. However, when it does you'll know because the hurricane windows will rattle and the pelicans flying by will stare at you! They are dinosaurs and you will want to grab one and take it home with you to show all your friends.

She takes her naps sitting up. Her head is tilted back and her mouth is open. She looks very vulnerable and you are glad she is resting, or refueling, for the next Wonder Woman trick. That's how you  know she still works and this is good because you do not want her to stop working.

Having Wonder Woman for a mom is not easy. She protects you (and everyone else) and you can get really dependent on that. It's hard being 54-years-old thinking you still need Wonder Woman around to protect you. Especially because everyone (yes, EVERYONE) thinks she is a cartoon character. You know she isn't because once in a while you have really serious, nuanced emotional conversations and she tells it like it is without having to employ the deflector cuffs at all. That is more super-heroine-like than anything else she does. It's times like this you know its cool she's your mom, even if there is glass in the smoothie.

Who else returns an entire purchase to the men's department and has it rung up again to use the 20% discount coupon at Macy's to save an additional $14.00?

No one else. It's the one and only Wonder Woman.