-M.C. Escher

I haven't been getting the best sleep of my life since I moved to Eugene. I love my apartment, and while my bed isn't the comfort slumbermarine that greeted me each night in San Francisco, it does the job. Yes, there are the thoughts buzzing with the move and the anticipation of the school year, but I also think it might have something to do with the White Bird Crisis Center but 1.5 blocks away.

The eligibility parameters for the White Bird Crisis Center:

"Anyone in crisis and the mentally ill."

I wonder where the residents see themselves on the eligibility spectrum. Are they at the center in crisis? Mentally ill? Certainly the two bleed into each other. Mentally ill is presumably a much more binding condition than in crisis. Semantics. Perception. The more we know the more we know the less we know.

The other night I woke up at 4 AM to a bellowing debate:

"I AM BLACK. I AM FUCKING BLACK!"

(Not your traditional lullaby. I peer out through a crack in my blinds, but cower back as soon as I see a streetlamp for fear my recon will be uncovered)

"You're black? You're not black! I'm black motherfucker!"

"I'm black. I am!"

You get the gist of it. I want to emphasize the rigorous strain put on the voices that erupt in the parking lot by my window in the wee hours of night. These people yell so loud, I imagine the trachea vibrating, the larynx swollen, red and angry. They do not just want to be heard, they want to be understood. And I suppose, if you're having an impassioned argument at 4 AM about your racial identity, and you need to have it loudly to ensure that your conversation partner really gets it, along with the witnesses you might have to contact later for verification of the exact words used, dropping as many f-bombs as possible can only help your cause. Within the cloud of this situation that mystifies me, this is a clear kernel that I can hold onto, that I am sure of. While you're at it, say fuck. A lot.

He's not just black. He's fucking black motherfucker and fuck you for fucking with him. Fuck.

You see what I'm saying? The man, from everything I can tell, really means what he has to say.

When I initially awoke to this tiff, I thought I was dreaming. No, this is not normally the stuff of my dreams, but a few hours earlier, I had read Langston Hughes' "Theme for English B.", a black student's brief meditation on race as he tries to complete an assignment for class. The poetic speaker reflects:

I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that's true! 

After I got up to putter around my apartment, refold the flaps of unpacked boxes, stub my toe, eat a piece of chocolate, it became clear that this was no dream. And these two men in the parking lot, did not want to be part of each other, especially our naysayer. He wanted absolutely nothing of the other man to reflect on his own person. But in yelling so loudly, dropping so many f-bombs, continuing the futile act of repeating his counter argument, I began to think that the other guy probably was black, and that's precisely why fuck man felt so defensive.

It's a bitch to realize you have things in common with something you hate. Pretty humbling. Maybe it makes you more compassionate. I'm learning from the people in crisis and mentally ill who like to hold fucking court at 4 am in my building's parking lot. So there's that.

modified painting by, Joyce Geleynse

Time makes sense, says what it means.

One of the few things we can really know for certain.

No matter how much you feel it contract or expand.

A day’s 24 hours, guaranteed.

Even the flash of an electric, ecstatic minute;

It slips through the cracks between your mind’s fingers

like a raw egg white.

You would think the yolk of memory more satisfying.

But there’s relief to swaddle in, too.

A minute will pass in a minute,

even if it’s the most uncomfortable minute of your life.

It's always disconcerting to move, right? Eugene, Oregon is full of one-way streets and hippies biking down the them the wrong way (literally and figuratively). So I'm being patient with myself as I try to navigate, navigation not being my my skill of the mad skills variety; I tend to lose the car once I park it, I very much like the cardinal directions in theory, GPS probably had people like me in mind when all of this man with a British accent barking directions at you brouhaha got started.

After a crazy night's sleep (dreams of key moments in my life where people were speaking in bubbles, the kind you blow with a plastic wand--imagine if you knew someone was saying, "I love you" by the shape of the bubbles they uttered--rather than words were only interrupted by the drunk college boys shrieking at each other in the parking lot right below my window), I ambled over to Diamond Parking to obtain my permit for the year. There is only two-hour parking in Eugene, but at 9 am in this morning Diamond Parking insisted that my apartment building is alloted six permits and they were all taken. As far as they were concerned, I had to move my car every two hours between 7 am and 6 pm for the next two years. I repeated it back to them just like that, perhaps slightly obnoxious and coated with what little East Coast sass is still flowing in my veins. They nodded and continued typing (probably IMs about what I bitch I was being), so I abandoned operation park, downed more coffee, and commenced operation get USPS to hook me up with the boxes they tried to deliver yesterday.

I called the number that the mailperson left me on that little peach slip, which had a pared down offering of information (It might as well say, "Hey. I tried to bring you your shit and you weren't here. Holler at me: #"). I attempted to connect with my mail liason, but he/she left no area code with the phone number. I went with 541 (Eugene) first and found myself in the voicemail box of Sue: "Hi this is Sue. Leave me a message and I'll call you back (muffled giggles)."

Now I could have been wrong, but generally when I call the number on the back of one of those slips, I get an automated system that has a passive aggressive habit of mishearing my responses to its bullshit questions. But maybe Sue the mailwoman had left me her personal phone number. Perhaps out of the kindness of her heart she decided she would deliver my seven boxes when ever I was ready for them. Anyhow, the general USPS number that was also listed had 800 in front of it, so I thought I would give that a whirl. Don't do what I just described in the last sentence. You might end up with a moaning woman on the other end who greets you with, "Oh, your cock is so hard and my pussy is so wet."

Like I said, moving is disconcerting.

When that's how she answered, I decided against saying, "I wanted to schedule a redelivery for my seven large packages."

A minute later, I get the following text messages in tandem:

"Hot horny SLUT. 5 min FREE first call!"

"You know what I want. to chat. I'm a hot girl in need of some texting. Tell me you'll come text with me..."

I wanted to write back, "I can't wait to have text with you ;) "

"Hot horny SLUT" sounds like a wild beast. What's with all caps? Maybe I can copywrite pornographic texts if present MFA path swerves in unexpected directions. Does anyone know any pornographic emoticons? No I am not googling that right now...

I replied "END" to my girl (the specified way to cut off the deluge of pornographic messages) and it worked! My first success of the day.

From there, Eugene and I got to know each other and we're like totally getting along.

I got the parking permit. I found chairs for the very kitchen table I am sitting at right now (!!). I did like like a bajillion vinyasas at Eugene School of Yoga.

When I was wandering around looking stressed today, one of the eight Jerry Garcia look-a-likes that lives on my block (fairy godmother, what, what?) called to my rescue from across the street, "You lost honey?"

"Nah. I'm just a little flustered, you know?"

"But you got nothing to worry about, right?" he said with a huge smile, giving his beard a gentle tug. There was this perfect wink of sunlight reflecting off his round glasses.

"Right."

The apocalypse is nigh. On the same day that I discover Tom DeLay is going to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, I get whopped with a sucker punch: Archie "dumb ass" Andrews has picked Veronica.

Ok, it's not like you don't expect Archie to drop the ball every now and again. That's kind of his M.O. But even Archie knows better than to marry Veronica Lodge (dude, her last name is Lodge!!). What could Archie Comics possibly be thinking? I mean, Batman might toy with the idea of hooking up with Poison Ivy, but they don't procreate. I know Archie going for Betty is totally what everyone, including myself, wants, and is thus expected, predictable, not what's going to cause a buzz, but there are just some things you don't mess with...you don't add lime to Bud Light, you don't make macaroni and cheese flavored crackers, you don't wear assless pants unless you're Prince, you don't make a musical out of Massada, and you certainly don't hop into bed forever after with the bitch of the century. Veronica's the kind of woman who would have voted for George W. Bush twice!

I chalk this up to what some of guy friends have called "bitch appeal." Veronica seems more exciting, she's got some bite. But Betty's cool. She's into the outdoors, she'll definitely make a better mom, she equally hot, if not hotter, than Veronica. When Archie gets fired from his job as a marketing executive, Betty will have some wild sex with him, tell him he's still a rock star, float them both for a while on her salary, and help him find his appropriately colored parachute. If Veronica doesn't kick him out, she'll certainly throw down for a week-long bender with him, intermittently reminding him that she always knew he was a loser and why the crap did she marry him.

I shouldn't even be that upset. No one's talking about the pink elephant in the room: Archie's gay, people! Marrying a woman just wouldn't work out for him--and right now, he can only marry his real "The One" in certain states. I'm not sure how they feel about gay marriage in Riverdale. Anyhow, I read enough Double Digests in my time to know that he and Jughead were having more than a bromance, we all know that Moose wanted to take Archie to prom, not Midge, and don't tell me Archie didn't have a masochistic obsession with Reggie. Shame on you Archie Comics for not being transparent with us. In ten years, when Archie has his Shawshank Redemption crawl out of his marriage to Veronica, come talk to me.

According to Merriam-Webster online:

• Main Entry: ex·pi·ra·tion
• Pronunciation: \ˌek-spə-ˈrā-shən\
• Function: noun
• Date: 1526

1 a : the last emission of breath : death b (1) : the act or process of releasing air from the lungs through the nose or mouth : exhalation (2) : the escape of carbon dioxide from the body protoplasm (as through the blood and lungs or by diffusion)

2 : the fact of coming to an end or the point at which something ends : termination

Don't worry, I'm not launching into a musing on death (at least not in the no mas pulse sense). I started thinking about expiration dates as I was going through old crap to see if I wanted to bring it with me when I move. Apparently, I missed the window on the 200 One-A-Day Vitamins for Women I purchased a few years ago. They expired on March 20, 2007. Of the 200, I'd say I took about five. You gotta wonder about the woman I might be today if I had gotten to six before '08. My NyQuil and DayQuil are donezo, too. And the breakfast sandwich holy water that is my bottle of medium hottie salsa from the corner store is moldy.

All of these expiration dates in the face of moving, it makes me feel like my move is overdue, that my shit knew it was time to change before I did. But here's the thing:

I don't like expiration dates. It's like knowing when you're going to break up with someone before the relationship begins. It's a deadline you will probably miss. It expired? Fail! Sometimes, there's a cushion of relief; Thank Godddd! I have two weeks to make it happen with these eggs. And Tums? Those chalky babies have some shelf life. So this morning, I was digging on shelf life, although the things that are still full of potential are filling my boxes to lower-back-assaulting capacity.

What's the alternative to expiration? Preservatives? Not the way forward. Then I started thinking about permanence, baggage, letting go--oh fuck, where is my unemployed mind?! I bet Andy Goldsworthy doesn't pack expired vitamins when he moves. I watched a bit from Rivers and Tides, then I threw away these Levi bell-bottoms that I wore every day in high school (the crotch has seemingly evaporated and I've been storing them under my bed with the bunk Day and NyQuil). Writer's Market 2005, the bra with the exposed underwire that stabs me, and the psychedelic Chinese lantern lights also got the boot. Scorched shelf policy. But there's still a bunch of stuff that's not relevant to my day-to-day, even year-to-year, that I'm taking with me, the stuff that makes my stomach cartwheel at the thought of not having, like my diaries from elementary school, ex-boyfriend associated tchotchkes, hand-written letters, and socks with no mates. Indeed, expiration dates are relative.

Tunes to listen to when you're deciding whether you give a shit what the expiration date has to say:

The Watcher - Dr. Dre

Both Sides, Now - Joni Mitchell

You Can't Always Get What You Want - Rolling Stones

Time to Move on - Tom Petty

When I'm Sixty-Four - The Beatles

You're Just What I Needed - The Cars

I Saw the Light - Hank Williams

Yakety Yak - The Coasters

Oh Northwest Airlines. I made my connection despite your best sabotage efforts. I could not have triumphed in the dash through the Minneapolis Airport without the support of the professional personal trainer trying to make the same flight.

At my side, she was flattering shade of unnaturally tan, muscled the likes of American Gladiatorette Blaze, and wearing navy blue daisy dukes and Asics cross trainers as if she predicted this very time scrunch predicament when she woke up for her flight at 4 AM. She ran at a pace just beyond my grasp through the terminals—no sign of short breath or increased heart rate. Meanwhile, I tried to keep up in my Chucks; each step solicited a pant followed by f-bombs at myself for that cigarette I had to have on the deck yesterday. She asked me questions about my upcoming vacation. I could only muster grunted answers. Strangely, her perfectly tangello breasts (crucifix nestled between) don’t budge as we run. I can’t help but think of them as the steady beams pointing us to our finish line: Gate G13.

Ten minutes into our Chicago flight, my breath finally even, reaping the benefits of my window seat, I realized that I really (really) had to pee--my row 21 compatriots had been passed out complete since our first review of seat floatation procedure. And despite it all Pitchfork, we unite. We get along swimmingly.

As seen on noonebelongshermorethanyou.com


Puberty is not dead.

Even if you are 27 and attending graduate school in the fall. Even if you were supposed to stop getting pimples ten years ago. Even if you've been in love (Ok, ok. Some snafu action, too) and now hold the experience-born potential to become a bastion of healthy girlfriend behavior. In theory.

In theory, puberty should be dead for the characters that populate Miranda July's No one belongs her more than you. In practice, the awkwardness and unpredictability of the adolescent turn is thriving. Hilarious and devastating, you feel the giddiness of reading someone’s diary as you turn the pages. A melodramatic fervor coats all of the decisions July's characters make, whether mundane or critical. The characters cannot stop throwing themselves at lovers who do not love them back, ignoring the good friends who really care about them, and demanding intimacy far too early in relationships, and no matter how ridiculous the scenario, it feels so personal to the reader. These stories show what we always suspected, that the awkward emotional mosh pit that is puberty continues far beyond the age of 13, and it’s almost worse later because by “the books,” you’re supposed to be over it. We are all erratic hormone bombs. Rational considerations be damned.

"The Swim Team" takes us to the small town of Belvedere where our narrator is able to carve out an identity by giving swim lessons to senior citizens on the linoleum floor of her kitchen. She backs into her coaching position, surprising herself with the new plan: “Then a strange thing happened. I was looking down at my shoes on the brown linoleum floor and I was thinking about how I bet this floor hadn’t been washed in a million years and I suddenly felt like I was going to die. But instead of dying, I said: I can teach you how to swim. And we don’t need a pool.” An unexpected trigger puts everything at stake. In true-to-life and especially adolescent form, it is something seemingly minuscule and non sequitur that brings her back from the brink of death. "Swim Team" captures the seeming randomness of many of our decisions—we often don’t know why we make them. It’s almost more of a physical response that we can’t control.

If we were less impulsive, we would certainly not choose a course the likes of "This Person." We meet this person on the day that she has gotten everything that she seemingly ever wanted. Every worry she has ever had, the affections she doubted, the decisions she regretted, all of it is abated. This person goes to a party, a celebration of her attended by every person that she has ever known, only to head home alone to check for mail that is not there. She ends up staying home, unfulfilled with getting everything she thought she wanted, and chooses to embrace loneliness instead. "This person mourns the fact that she has ruined her one chance to be loved by everyone; as this person climbs into bed, the weight of this person's tragedy seems to bear down upon this person's chest. And it is a comforting weight, almost human in heft." This person feels lonely without tragedy; the void of things she wants is more familiar and comforting than the things themselves. We are dissatisfied, but we do not want to change. When we change, it feels like we lose intimacy with ourselves.

Our protagonist in "Birthmark" has spent her life on the brink of beautiful, held back by the port-colored birthmark on her face. She is finally able to afford laser surgery and has it removed, but rather than gratification, she feels a sense of betrayal to her authentic self. The people who only know her without the birthmark do not really know her. She writes, “Have you ever wanted something very badly and then gotten it? Then you know that winning is many things, but it is never the thing you thought it would be…Her winnings were the absence of something, and this quality hung around her.” It's a poignant illustration of want and need out of alignment.

The power and the resonance of the stories often lies in the sadness that catches us off-guard. They are unexpectedly depressing. No one belongs her more than you. At first the title seems positive: You are more than welcome here, you belong so much. But it can also flip on itself. No one belongs. No one belongs here more than you, and you don't belong very much. That’s the fuck, we’re living in a paradigm where absolutely no one feels like they belong, where everyone feels alone. You’re not alone in your loneliness. Perhaps this is July's overarching question: Does shared loneliness and disappointment offer company and relief?

By the end of the collection, reading these felt a bit self-indulgent—like you just want to slap the characters and your sympathies for gorging on emo. But July is taking risks, she's letting her characters eccentricities, neuroses, and humiliations have an orgy. If you're not overdoing it some of the time, than your risks are not risky enough. On the sentence level, July has balls, too (or ovaries as it were). She will write streams of simple, straightforward sentences that aren’t always pretty, but they move the story forward. And she knows just the right moment to lob you a longer, lyrical sentence that is utterly devastating in the frame of the matter-of-fact strings of words that came before it. A few shallow pronouncements showed up, pretty words that didn’t add anything to the story, but those were the exception, not the standard. I think that's pretty fucking impressive for a first collection of short stories.

Excellent summer reading, but I would recommend consumption of only a few stories at a time to avoid rocketing yourself into preteen steez depression. The proverbial spinach is firmly wedged between all our front teeth in some capacity, but you don't need to beat yourself over the head with it, particularly on your summer break.











This person is the everyman/woman for the characters in this collection