The Things I'll Carry

forks knives spoons
plates, cracked
bowls, cracked
wine glasses
glasses, miss-matched and stolen from bars
cumin rosemary lawrys salt salt pepper coriander basil
green tea earl grey Tao calm coffee filters
noodles brown rice peanut butter cocoa sun dried tomatoes
pots pans baking sheets spatulas butcher knives
toaster tea pot microwave
vases
small cooler
broom swiffer
garbage can recycling bucket
drano raid windex clorox sponges dish soap hand soap
Pat’s kitchen table
three chairs
dad’s wooden table papa san chair love seat futon
drip paint painting train picture book poetry calendar
photos of Picadilly circus photos of Bologna Italy photo of mom Amelie poster Ankor Wat poster
map of London map of New York map of Thailand map of the world
DVDs CDs old phones old chargers chords chords chords
green rug
oak chest black book shelf green book shelf queen mattress box spring
cook books childrens books fiction books nonfiction photo albums yearbooks
notebooks journals diaries
sheets flowered blanket down comforter ratty pink blanket 4 pillows Gerald
t-shirts nice shirts pants jeans shorts skirts dresses
tennis shoes rain boots heels sandals flip flops clogs boots chucks
underwear socks bras belts hats scarves
box of notes from Nina box of college papers and notebooks box of Peter box of files
bath towels hand towels wash cloths park blankets
guitar
bike
cactus jade red vein
iron ironing board soccer ball huge box of junk I never open
toothbrush toothpaste brush nail clippers bathroom mat contact case qtips
nail polish aloe vera lotion contact solution sunscreen
face wash mouth wash shampoo conditioner body wash razor
me

Quiet Hell

http://www.slate.com/id/2260395
Will it ever happen?

Dear Robbi [an excerpt]

You may admire this trait of mine, this ability to love -to drown in it as quick as Jack drowned in the icy waters of the Titanic's Atlantic. My brain shuts down, like so, and my heart and it's veins and vessels do the thinking. It's a dangerous way to live, this, but I cannot and will not attempt to control it. How can one resist the flowery goodness, the lavender and lilac of love? Especially, as you noted, the beginnings of it - when the seed has been planted and the young, wet, sinewy stem reaches the surface of the dirt and it's form is in plain view? And I don't blame you for fearing the wilty side, the other side of love, where you have to work hard to hold tightly to the fading pink petals - to keep it lively, to keep it lovely. When there is a fertilizer made for this, find me, bring it to me, tell me! Because the first years of love can be the best years of our lives - but the rest won't be so bad - not for people like you and I. We'll color it with those lavender purples and rosy pinks - no matter what - we'll smear our petals on the walls of our lives and never ever let them be eggshell or beige.

Memory Tour

As we walked through 5 neighborhoods of Brooklyn in one day and 4 neighborhoods of Manhattan that one balmy weekend, we remembered the time when she made up a bed for me in her sun-lit home, in the room with the balcony and the multi-colored quilt. When I would sit at her kitchen table watching her at the stove, mix concoctions, roll meatballs, sauté vegetables, and tell her about my day at school. When we would lounge at the pool in her backyard, where she would tell me that my body would change, that I should feel lucky to be a Chamberlain with only just a hint of sarcasm, that I would find another boy to kiss even if the boy I was kissing smelled like Michael Jordan cologne and had gel in his hair. We remembered the beach with driftwood and drip sand castles and the cottage with collections of sculls and sand and grandchildren. Woven through our conversations and our subway rides and crossing intersections, memories of her mother and my mother flowed freely, almost as though the two woman walked with us, laughing with us at the passing characters, wiping their sweaty brows with us, holding our hands like they used to when we were young.