The Baker
She kneads dough
from whatever's been
hanging around,
rolls out earth, fire, water, air
to the thickness of an eyelash
until the goop is more
or less uniform.
She's ready to bake cookies.
Today the shape of a circle
is her favorite.
She frames one out,
sprinkles a planet
with mountains,
those green trees.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Transformity
A woman bound in black rags,
a burqa falls to mold and mulch.
She's hollowed over a single spark
inside the discolored sink of her hands.
Hers alone this splinter --
to stone with rocks, or feed with her breath?
Just a moment, please.
She's thinking.
Because she swore to keep the treaty,
even after her family disappeared
to a place she can't imagine,
her heart exiled within her chest.
She must allow the spark to burn.
And yet...
A woman bound in black rags,
a burqa falls to mold and mulch.
She's hollowed over a single spark
inside the discolored sink of her hands.
Hers alone this splinter --
to stone with rocks, or feed with her breath?
Just a moment, please.
She's thinking.
Because she swore to keep the treaty,
even after her family disappeared
to a place she can't imagine,
her heart exiled within her chest.
She must allow the spark to burn.
And yet...
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Sing Song
When they hear you've died, even now,
so many people don't know what to say. I don't get it.
I thought death was a well-known thing
as compared to when my parents
stopped working. You'd think with AIDs,
the War in Iraq, and 9/11, word had gotten out.
If I were still a technical writer,
I'd put together an instruction manual for co-workers
who avert their eyes,
or tell me how they've sprained an ankle,
or wait for me to call and ask for help.
They are the rescuers.
But what can I tell my friends who stop by my desk
with their unsolicited gentleness,
explain to them how our rivers diverged,
even as I held you between my thighs,
rocked with the great mystery
of who you were?
It's the finality, the caesura
of our lives.
What's left is notation,
written on the face
of our children, the G clef
of how much we once loved each other.
When they hear you've died, even now,
so many people don't know what to say. I don't get it.
I thought death was a well-known thing
as compared to when my parents
stopped working. You'd think with AIDs,
the War in Iraq, and 9/11, word had gotten out.
If I were still a technical writer,
I'd put together an instruction manual for co-workers
who avert their eyes,
or tell me how they've sprained an ankle,
or wait for me to call and ask for help.
They are the rescuers.
But what can I tell my friends who stop by my desk
with their unsolicited gentleness,
explain to them how our rivers diverged,
even as I held you between my thighs,
rocked with the great mystery
of who you were?
It's the finality, the caesura
of our lives.
What's left is notation,
written on the face
of our children, the G clef
of how much we once loved each other.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Prayer for Tashlich
I cast my memories
to geese at Lake Merritt
so as they shit,
somewhere between sky and earth,
my Gemini, who had a heart like a volcano,
you will hear me.
I pray fogiveness
that I could not admit to myself
how much I loved you,
because it was opening a deep wound.
I pray forgiveness
that I could not admit to myself you were dying,
and was not there to shepherd you
through those burnt mountains.
I give thanks for the last joke
you left me with,
and hope you are singing
to a loft of children.
Love is what calls us into being.
Death calls us back.
I cast my memories
to geese at Lake Merritt
so as they shit,
somewhere between sky and earth,
my Gemini, who had a heart like a volcano,
you will hear me.
I pray fogiveness
that I could not admit to myself
how much I loved you,
because it was opening a deep wound.
I pray forgiveness
that I could not admit to myself you were dying,
and was not there to shepherd you
through those burnt mountains.
I give thanks for the last joke
you left me with,
and hope you are singing
to a loft of children.
Love is what calls us into being.
Death calls us back.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
For My Husband, Robert Galitzen
The week you died my gas tank
never dipped below the half-way mark.
I kept driving and driving anywhere
to let in the fresh air.
I had a magic gas tank.
The week before you died
I saw babies asleep with chins on their necks
in strollers, angels of dimpled thighs,
and pigeons rose in spirals against
the rectangle of buildings,
and so I was caught off balance
when I found you in your bed,
eyes rolled back in your head,
arms stretched out as if to receive
the cold kiss of death without flinching.
I had a magic tank of gas
that took my car everywhere,
but not back to you.
The week you died my gas tank
never dipped below the half-way mark.
I kept driving and driving anywhere
to let in the fresh air.
I had a magic gas tank.
The week before you died
I saw babies asleep with chins on their necks
in strollers, angels of dimpled thighs,
and pigeons rose in spirals against
the rectangle of buildings,
and so I was caught off balance
when I found you in your bed,
eyes rolled back in your head,
arms stretched out as if to receive
the cold kiss of death without flinching.
I had a magic tank of gas
that took my car everywhere,
but not back to you.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Iphigenia at Lunch-time
I'm exiled in a country
between two great waters
where tornados churn houses
into oversized toothpicks, in a mall
where there use to grow corn.
Lunch-time I serve french fries,
wear a uniform that lets me
nod yes or no
without needing much else, but sometimes,
I disappear into my own language,
and thinking this way,
no one would know how my questions
prey upon my mind until they become gelatin,
my father and mother still in the old country,
whose shores I may not cross.
Achilles, my husband in make-believe,
I wanted you to grab the knife
from my father's hand and stop him
from etching my throat in sacrifice.
I had hoped you'd divine
what I could not ask -- to defy a nation
gathered on the beach for history's recital.
So what became of our bravery?
You killed in battle, and I,
pouring black oil upon the altar of a memory.
I'm exiled in a country
between two great waters
where tornados churn houses
into oversized toothpicks, in a mall
where there use to grow corn.
Lunch-time I serve french fries,
wear a uniform that lets me
nod yes or no
without needing much else, but sometimes,
I disappear into my own language,
and thinking this way,
no one would know how my questions
prey upon my mind until they become gelatin,
my father and mother still in the old country,
whose shores I may not cross.
Achilles, my husband in make-believe,
I wanted you to grab the knife
from my father's hand and stop him
from etching my throat in sacrifice.
I had hoped you'd divine
what I could not ask -- to defy a nation
gathered on the beach for history's recital.
So what became of our bravery?
You killed in battle, and I,
pouring black oil upon the altar of a memory.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Porosity of the Styrofoam Man
We bleed
into each other's cell phones.
On the bus
your life follows me,
the same man
with a package in a plastic bag.
I hear about people
you're trying to escape,
the same ones
who’re coming over for dinner.
I hear about heart attacks
and nervous breakdowns
what your friend should of done
instead of opening his big boca.
I know where you'd really like to go
if you could get a day off,
instead you went shopping
with discount coupons.
“Deals mean long lines
and no parking spots,"
you advise, "which is why
I don't drive."
(I don’t know who
you’re talking to now),
nodding for me to take the styrofoam
& remove its plastic,
maybe you tell me
to hold the date,
I don't know
which one, or if this
is about concert tickets
my styrofoam man wants to buy,
while you or he
take(s) two blue pills
how he stayed up
all last night,
like a wheel balanced
on its chrome rim shining,
and I'm feeling you,
I'm feeling you right now.
We bleed
into each other's cell phones.
On the bus
your life follows me,
the same man
with a package in a plastic bag.
I hear about people
you're trying to escape,
the same ones
who’re coming over for dinner.
I hear about heart attacks
and nervous breakdowns
what your friend should of done
instead of opening his big boca.
I know where you'd really like to go
if you could get a day off,
instead you went shopping
with discount coupons.
“Deals mean long lines
and no parking spots,"
you advise, "which is why
I don't drive."
(I don’t know who
you’re talking to now),
nodding for me to take the styrofoam
& remove its plastic,
maybe you tell me
to hold the date,
I don't know
which one, or if this
is about concert tickets
my styrofoam man wants to buy,
while you or he
take(s) two blue pills
how he stayed up
all last night,
like a wheel balanced
on its chrome rim shining,
and I'm feeling you,
I'm feeling you right now.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Ludlow Massacre, 1914
1.
Her name was Little Lucy, no connection to Lucille Ball,
but visitors at the Capitol Mall didn't need to know.
She worked the crowd, flashed her dimples,
wore smoke-soaked clothes, no shoes for her,
the only familiar thing, a hooded black sweat shirt
so she wouldn't look cold, although she was way past
feeling anything since iron rain had fallen
upon her family's tent in Ludlow, Colorado,
when everything she knew had soaked into the ground.
Now she was telling them how it was her birthday,
counted eight more of her at home, spoke their names,
how she lived on the wrong side of the monument,
didn't have a single present, no, not one.
She really didn't want their rings and bracelets.
It was a game she enjoyed playing,
to make people act like they cared for her.
2.
Time to testify at hearings,
walk past lobbyists with American flags
pinned on woolen lapels, take a number,
sit down, and wait until called.
Betty's boy, because that's what people
always had called him when he was living
with Lucy at Ludlow, took a seat in the second row
next to the rest of the delegation, wondered
when he was going to find a playground.
He hadn't come all this way
to climb a bunch of granite.
Betty's boy remembered laughter coming through
the deep muffle. Because if there was one thing
he could do with his life, that was
to keep playing.
3.
None of the chairman
for the President's Commission on Violence
had seen anything like them,
the way they took to the podium
as though they were in a bowling alley,
and they, the 10 Senators, pins.
"Must've taken a school bus
to get you here,"
said one of the members.
But it was clear by the way
the Senator bent into his microphone,
he saw trouble.
4.
For we are not sons and daughters of the middle class
who go to summer camps and take tap-dance lessons.
Our last day here we waited for night.
Night finally came like a wanted child.
Give us a souvenir, a piece of blue sky,
to take back with us to where the tules grow,
where Ms. Universe has corn rows,
twists, and plants stars.
You think we are children.
But you do not know who we are.
1.
Her name was Little Lucy, no connection to Lucille Ball,
but visitors at the Capitol Mall didn't need to know.
She worked the crowd, flashed her dimples,
wore smoke-soaked clothes, no shoes for her,
the only familiar thing, a hooded black sweat shirt
so she wouldn't look cold, although she was way past
feeling anything since iron rain had fallen
upon her family's tent in Ludlow, Colorado,
when everything she knew had soaked into the ground.
Now she was telling them how it was her birthday,
counted eight more of her at home, spoke their names,
how she lived on the wrong side of the monument,
didn't have a single present, no, not one.
She really didn't want their rings and bracelets.
It was a game she enjoyed playing,
to make people act like they cared for her.
2.
Time to testify at hearings,
walk past lobbyists with American flags
pinned on woolen lapels, take a number,
sit down, and wait until called.
Betty's boy, because that's what people
always had called him when he was living
with Lucy at Ludlow, took a seat in the second row
next to the rest of the delegation, wondered
when he was going to find a playground.
He hadn't come all this way
to climb a bunch of granite.
Betty's boy remembered laughter coming through
the deep muffle. Because if there was one thing
he could do with his life, that was
to keep playing.
3.
None of the chairman
for the President's Commission on Violence
had seen anything like them,
the way they took to the podium
as though they were in a bowling alley,
and they, the 10 Senators, pins.
"Must've taken a school bus
to get you here,"
said one of the members.
But it was clear by the way
the Senator bent into his microphone,
he saw trouble.
4.
For we are not sons and daughters of the middle class
who go to summer camps and take tap-dance lessons.
Our last day here we waited for night.
Night finally came like a wanted child.
Give us a souvenir, a piece of blue sky,
to take back with us to where the tules grow,
where Ms. Universe has corn rows,
twists, and plants stars.
You think we are children.
But you do not know who we are.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Massacre at Ywahoo Falls
1.
We're going to the white dome
where they've never seen us before,
dragging a sled of cardboard
with a potato, grandmother's picture
in a broken nickel frame.
We stream to the Capitol
from everywhere.
We are not sons and daughters of the middle class
who are trying to make ends meet.
Our ends
only know each other
from the same mass grave.
2.
A girl from the crowd takes hold of a guitar
and tunes hundreds of years on it,
a dry scent of nasturtium and chicory
upon her fingers, sings of children
who gather one wave after another
cresting upon the stairway
of their representatives.
We have voices,
wrapped in government-issued wool blankets
as gray as your lined faces
to tell you
we are buried
at the bottom of a cave.
Come find us
in our game of hide and seek.
Find us
where we have been forced to go,
places that have made us into adults
before we could be children,
3.
which is what one of the boys said
elbowing his way
to the Jefferson Memorial
before any of his pasty chums
could remove their hands
from their pockets,
not being use to pockets
except on such spectacular occasions.
Why, according to him,
it was his own idea
to come to the Capitol
since everyone was getting bored,
although he'd been exploring
the water table,
measuring the exchange rate
between bubbles and oxygen.
He might decide to become a fish.
There was no law against it.
At least, none he knew about,
which is why he first walked to the reflecting pool,
drawn to water,
the creepy feeling it gave him
each time he touched his face
and saw it fall apart
there at Ywahoo Falls
with War Woman Selu-Sa-tah,
Cornblossom whose silken tassels
turned Kentucky red
where 100 children
were squashed like nits.
He didn't remember details in any order.
Something about falling water.
4.
thinking he was not born
to become a storage tank for memories.
He is.
1.
We're going to the white dome
where they've never seen us before,
dragging a sled of cardboard
with a potato, grandmother's picture
in a broken nickel frame.
We stream to the Capitol
from everywhere.
We are not sons and daughters of the middle class
who are trying to make ends meet.
Our ends
only know each other
from the same mass grave.
2.
A girl from the crowd takes hold of a guitar
and tunes hundreds of years on it,
a dry scent of nasturtium and chicory
upon her fingers, sings of children
who gather one wave after another
cresting upon the stairway
of their representatives.
We have voices,
wrapped in government-issued wool blankets
as gray as your lined faces
to tell you
we are buried
at the bottom of a cave.
Come find us
in our game of hide and seek.
Find us
where we have been forced to go,
places that have made us into adults
before we could be children,
3.
which is what one of the boys said
elbowing his way
to the Jefferson Memorial
before any of his pasty chums
could remove their hands
from their pockets,
not being use to pockets
except on such spectacular occasions.
Why, according to him,
it was his own idea
to come to the Capitol
since everyone was getting bored,
although he'd been exploring
the water table,
measuring the exchange rate
between bubbles and oxygen.
He might decide to become a fish.
There was no law against it.
At least, none he knew about,
which is why he first walked to the reflecting pool,
drawn to water,
the creepy feeling it gave him
each time he touched his face
and saw it fall apart
there at Ywahoo Falls
with War Woman Selu-Sa-tah,
Cornblossom whose silken tassels
turned Kentucky red
where 100 children
were squashed like nits.
He didn't remember details in any order.
Something about falling water.
4.
thinking he was not born
to become a storage tank for memories.
He is.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Monday, August 02, 2004
The Online Music We Make
It's the music we make using our words, how we sound to each other. The same way a choreographer can take a roomful of dancers standing before a wall of mirrors, and teach them all the same routine. But dancers move differently, and put something of their own bodies behind each step, the way they understand a movement, which allows us to know something of their personal expression.
So language too, when it's done up right, can become steps for our voices, without leading us to stumble. For listening and talking online is not equally as satisfying as watching a great performance. For not all partners are adept at language or can understand each other's music through a series of exchanged hints. At best, talking online can lead to dialog. At worst, to pointless one-liners that go no place, except bye-bye.
It's the music we make using our words, how we sound to each other. The same way a choreographer can take a roomful of dancers standing before a wall of mirrors, and teach them all the same routine. But dancers move differently, and put something of their own bodies behind each step, the way they understand a movement, which allows us to know something of their personal expression.
So language too, when it's done up right, can become steps for our voices, without leading us to stumble. For listening and talking online is not equally as satisfying as watching a great performance. For not all partners are adept at language or can understand each other's music through a series of exchanged hints. At best, talking online can lead to dialog. At worst, to pointless one-liners that go no place, except bye-bye.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
The Book of Alien Dating:11
Maybe it makes more sense to date aliens, place a post somewhere on an intergalactic highway; I simply don't know how any two people contact each other over the Internet when all we have are words. Well, of course, there are audibles and signals and invitations to play chess, and buzzers to call a person to order themselves in front of the computer screen. But I long for a physical person.
Hopeless Alien: Hey, you out there. I saw your posting from the drawbridge.
Writergrll: You weren't too far away...
Hopeless Alien: Nah, I'm skimming in my saucer tonight. How are you doing?
Writergrll: I'm good. Good weekend.
Hopeless Alien: Nice to hear that. I was looking for your profile the other day up on the Moonsite, but lots of intergalactic weather kicking in and all I got was bounced
Writergrll: By the bouncer?
Hopeless Alien: He's not as big as he thinks he is.
Writergrll: FCOL. I thought you disappeared off the face or something. After I posted my picture I didn't hear from you. I thought it was something I didn't say.
Hopeless Alien. Not at all.
Writergrll: This endless chatter could go on forever.
Hopeless Alien. It does all over the universe. Now tell me...am I a real alien conversing with you now or just the reflection of someone who arrived at this particular portal from some futuristic b-movie in time?
Writergrll: I'm totally overwhelmed, but I'm feeling undeveloped.
Hopeless Alien. Not by the look of things.
Writergrll: What things?
Hopeless Alien. Your breasts.
Writergrll. You mean you aliens go for breasts?
Hopeless Alien. C'mon. You must think I'm really strange.
Writergrll: Just different. But tell me. Are you a man or what?
Hopeless Alien. Not in terms of the typical species definition.
Writergrll: Oh brother.
Hopeless Alien. Not that either.
Writergrll: It's just a form of speech.
Hopeless Alien. Now you're getting warmer.
Maybe it makes more sense to date aliens, place a post somewhere on an intergalactic highway; I simply don't know how any two people contact each other over the Internet when all we have are words. Well, of course, there are audibles and signals and invitations to play chess, and buzzers to call a person to order themselves in front of the computer screen. But I long for a physical person.
Hopeless Alien: Hey, you out there. I saw your posting from the drawbridge.
Writergrll: You weren't too far away...
Hopeless Alien: Nah, I'm skimming in my saucer tonight. How are you doing?
Writergrll: I'm good. Good weekend.
Hopeless Alien: Nice to hear that. I was looking for your profile the other day up on the Moonsite, but lots of intergalactic weather kicking in and all I got was bounced
Writergrll: By the bouncer?
Hopeless Alien: He's not as big as he thinks he is.
Writergrll: FCOL. I thought you disappeared off the face or something. After I posted my picture I didn't hear from you. I thought it was something I didn't say.
Hopeless Alien. Not at all.
Writergrll: This endless chatter could go on forever.
Hopeless Alien. It does all over the universe. Now tell me...am I a real alien conversing with you now or just the reflection of someone who arrived at this particular portal from some futuristic b-movie in time?
Writergrll: I'm totally overwhelmed, but I'm feeling undeveloped.
Hopeless Alien. Not by the look of things.
Writergrll: What things?
Hopeless Alien. Your breasts.
Writergrll. You mean you aliens go for breasts?
Hopeless Alien. C'mon. You must think I'm really strange.
Writergrll: Just different. But tell me. Are you a man or what?
Hopeless Alien. Not in terms of the typical species definition.
Writergrll: Oh brother.
Hopeless Alien. Not that either.
Writergrll: It's just a form of speech.
Hopeless Alien. Now you're getting warmer.
Elaine was Sick and We Couldn't Go to the Movies
A manicure with purple all-day sucker fingernails to Barnes and Noble for a copy of the 9/11 Commission Report in stacks on the front-door table (piles sounds like hemorrhoids but I'm keeping my fingers in everything these days) , to a nice steak for dinner with grilled onions and peppers, reading New Yorker magazines, Iraqi Poetry Today, and watching TV, a mixed media, a melange experience; sez Baghdad is a captive, forgotten
A manicure with purple all-day sucker fingernails to Barnes and Noble for a copy of the 9/11 Commission Report in stacks on the front-door table (piles sounds like hemorrhoids but I'm keeping my fingers in everything these days) , to a nice steak for dinner with grilled onions and peppers, reading New Yorker magazines, Iraqi Poetry Today, and watching TV, a mixed media, a melange experience; sez Baghdad is a captive, forgotten
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Free Speech Zone
A free speech zone bounded
on three sides by a house, parking spot, and a sidewalk,
not very big, but it does the trick for now
say whatever you'd like to say and say it well
On three sides by a house, parking spot, and a sidewalk
without it getting back to people you use to work with,
say whatever you'd like to say and say it well
because truth throws a trip wire and makes it rain
Without it getting back to people you use to work with
who'll try to slip a pillow case over your head,
because truth throws a trip wire and makes it rain
far outside the free speech zone where people are dying.
Who will try to slip a pillow case over your head,
and make you look like some kind of a sleeping idiot on uppers
far outside the free speech zone where people are dying?
Step closer. Closer now.
A free speech zone bounded
on three sides by a house, parking spot, and a sidewalk,
not very big, but it does the trick for now
say whatever you'd like to say and say it well
On three sides by a house, parking spot, and a sidewalk
without it getting back to people you use to work with,
say whatever you'd like to say and say it well
because truth throws a trip wire and makes it rain
Without it getting back to people you use to work with
who'll try to slip a pillow case over your head,
because truth throws a trip wire and makes it rain
far outside the free speech zone where people are dying.
Who will try to slip a pillow case over your head,
and make you look like some kind of a sleeping idiot on uppers
far outside the free speech zone where people are dying?
Step closer. Closer now.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Sunday, July 18, 2004
This is so stupid
someone has sent me an email (tralatrala) and he sounds like the kind of person I'd like to meet (right age, size, an involved father, with the community), but I haven't heard from him all weekend after that first contact I want to hear find out more about who he is even if we don't become special friends there's something about discovering another life's trajectory (wuz it something I said)?
someone has sent me an email (tralatrala) and he sounds like the kind of person I'd like to meet (right age, size, an involved father, with the community), but I haven't heard from him all weekend after that first contact I want to hear find out more about who he is even if we don't become special friends there's something about discovering another life's trajectory (wuz it something I said)?
Saturday, July 17, 2004
The Book of Online Dating: 9
What do people mean by chemistry anyhow? Is that a code word for, "Do you think you could go to bed with me?" Or does it mean something more like do get goose bumps when you see me? Basically, are we talking about pherenomes here?
I guess everyone has their own definition of chemisty and the trick is in finding two people who are on that same wavelength. But how will I even know when I'm in the presence of a similar pherenome type of guy? I once thought I did, and nearly ran my car into the parking lot fence if I happened to see a certain someone walk in front of me to get his coffee from the local java hut.
I was so emboldened that I even invited him out to coffee which he agreed to do at some appointed time when he was able to "get his head above water." As far as I know, his head is still submerged, or perhaps it is simply busy doing something else. So much for chemistry. But I do know the trick is that two people must both be experiencing raging hormones at the same time, which is the beauty of online dating.
For in this world, unlike the more shadowy sinister one out there, we have all boldly stated as we walk through the registration door, "I am available."
However, the next part is more difficult. It requires sorting through thousands of profiles and becoming clever with search criteria and actually connecting with someone to arrive at the place where it's possible to even get a chemistry reaction, reverse engineering if you will, from the general run-of-the-mill score. So by the time we get that first hit, it's possible to really know something about someone so that everything falls into place. Or am I just dreaming?
Dreaming.
Quiet out there.
What do people mean by chemistry anyhow? Is that a code word for, "Do you think you could go to bed with me?" Or does it mean something more like do get goose bumps when you see me? Basically, are we talking about pherenomes here?
I guess everyone has their own definition of chemisty and the trick is in finding two people who are on that same wavelength. But how will I even know when I'm in the presence of a similar pherenome type of guy? I once thought I did, and nearly ran my car into the parking lot fence if I happened to see a certain someone walk in front of me to get his coffee from the local java hut.
I was so emboldened that I even invited him out to coffee which he agreed to do at some appointed time when he was able to "get his head above water." As far as I know, his head is still submerged, or perhaps it is simply busy doing something else. So much for chemistry. But I do know the trick is that two people must both be experiencing raging hormones at the same time, which is the beauty of online dating.
For in this world, unlike the more shadowy sinister one out there, we have all boldly stated as we walk through the registration door, "I am available."
However, the next part is more difficult. It requires sorting through thousands of profiles and becoming clever with search criteria and actually connecting with someone to arrive at the place where it's possible to even get a chemistry reaction, reverse engineering if you will, from the general run-of-the-mill score. So by the time we get that first hit, it's possible to really know something about someone so that everything falls into place. Or am I just dreaming?
Dreaming.
Quiet out there.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
The Book of Online Dating: 8
We spent several hours emptying the contents of our cups.
"I don't want to talk about my personal relationship," he said.
"I didn't ask you to."
"I really like living by myself." He sounded like he was trying too hard to convince himself, and went on to describe his current difficulties.
Once we had emptied our cups and recounted our stories, we left the caffeine haze of Peet's to find our cars. He seemed like he was still sorting everything out, and wanted a friend around to help ease the pain.
In a few days I received an email asking me if I thought we had chemistry. Chemisty? How about something to say to each other?
Next time before I agree to meet a guy, I'm going to email him a lot first.
We spent several hours emptying the contents of our cups.
"I don't want to talk about my personal relationship," he said.
"I didn't ask you to."
"I really like living by myself." He sounded like he was trying too hard to convince himself, and went on to describe his current difficulties.
Once we had emptied our cups and recounted our stories, we left the caffeine haze of Peet's to find our cars. He seemed like he was still sorting everything out, and wanted a friend around to help ease the pain.
In a few days I received an email asking me if I thought we had chemistry. Chemisty? How about something to say to each other?
Next time before I agree to meet a guy, I'm going to email him a lot first.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
The Book of Online Dating: 7
"A latte," I said.
TigerTailwas more genuine than self-conscious, something which I liked. However, he did seem a bit faded from his online picture by about five to 10 years, the hair more grey than sandy, the jaw more jowl, and he definitely looked thick, but it wasn't in a heavy or a stocky way thick, it was more how a magnet collects metal filings around its middle because it hasn't lost its charge.
"A latte," I said.
TigerTailwas more genuine than self-conscious, something which I liked. However, he did seem a bit faded from his online picture by about five to 10 years, the hair more grey than sandy, the jaw more jowl, and he definitely looked thick, but it wasn't in a heavy or a stocky way thick, it was more how a magnet collects metal filings around its middle because it hasn't lost its charge.
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