To this girl, there were few things more haranguing than the sound of laughter, especially when she wanted nothing more than to be alone. She may have been as busy as she liked, conjugating verbs, solving equations, writing music, and she may have been as far away as her synapses would allow, but soon enough, those shrill and staccato utterances would always seep through into even her tiniest cerebral crevices and infiltrate her most intimate hiding spaces. To her it was offensive (and even disturbing) to realize that she could never truly escape.

On longer days that left her feeling cold, she would turn to hot tea. She controlled every aspect of it: its taste and its heat and its scent, but she could never fully control its temperature. Yes, she could heat the water until it began to hiss, at which point she could turn off the boiler and force the kettle's sharp vaporous tongue to sink back into its dark and mysterious mouth, but she could not control how long its heat would remain. When she would drink her tea, the only things to enter her mind were its steamy and sinewy arms that beckoned her to indulge in momentary warmth and wholeness. Those soft and streaming limbs were always welcome in her very special vestibule, and for that she would almost always oblige to its requests. And for a moment, she didn't notice the wet and stinging laughter banging on her tin brow, and more importantly, she didn't feel so hollow or alone.

How ephemeral it all was. Soon enough, the laughter began to crack a hole in her cerebral ceiling, and the girl was soon presented with a rusting reminder of who she was and who she was not. She grew to be immensely jealous of the voices of others who seemed to be able to regulate their own body temperatures (at least in the company of others), jealous of the minds not susceptible to cracking or infiltration of dark and damp thoughts. The laughter came and went like the crashing of waves does at various points of the tide, and the girl began to imagine about what it was they were laughing.

She eventually began to notice that her fingers were beginning to pale, and decided to look to her cup for relief. Clasping the cup, she looked in. The girl's previous reflection, one barely discernible in that sultry, spiced mist was no longer; staring back at her was a sad and soggy teabag that had retreated away into a dark corner of its ceramic cave, ashamed and shuddering as she breathed slowly onto it.

The laughter grew, and the girl stared back into her cup and its bloated bottom feeder. It was there all along, lurking just below its steamy surface.

I am the joke.

The laughter then began to assume consonants and vowels, and despite its inevitable murkiness, the girl was able to decipher the things that she lacked. How silly of me to think that things never grow cold, and that suppression makes everything evaporate into the ether, leaving and taking with it nothing but a single breath. The laughter continued, and she felt hollow once more. Her brain was beginning to swell with those thoughts again.

The girl clasped her lavender hands around her cup even harder now, hoping for warmth to dry her thoughts and heat her hands, but she felt nothing. It would be impossible to do so, anyway; it was always vapor. A decrepit buoy floated helplessly in a shallow pool of brown water, simultaneously suffocating in and expelling its own filth. The girl took a finger to it, half-expecting the bag to hiss, to bite, to sting, but it didn't. It remained motionless; it was nothing, and it had always been nothing, even when it was something.

The laughter receded into the dark and silent deep. She had what she wanted! And the girl sat in a dry and quiet room clutching an empty cup. But she still could not escape.

turandot

There is a woman who stares at me each day, as I wake and as I fall. Her gaze is cold, distant, and made frozen and permanent by an antique frame. Her lips are pursed, and she appears somewhat choked from the glass that lays inextricable from her face. Beneath her indigo blouse reads her name: TURANDOT.


I never really was quite fond of opera, but I have always been a fan of the color indigo. Because I was moving into a new home, I wanted to fill my space with colors and textures that I liked. So one day while antiquing, I came across my frozen friend. She was hidden away behind some miserable 19th century landscape that romanticized the hunt. I was immediately captivated by the far away look in her eyes, the richness of her clothing, and her ornate jewelry. The attendant came to assist me.

"How much do you want for her?" I asked.

She seemed stunned. "For this?"

I nodded.

"Well let me even see, it's been here so long I've forgotten we've even had it." She mulled through the hunting paintings, searching (I'm assuming) for one of a similar size and with a similar frame for price comparison. "Are you sure you don't just want one of these, these are great landscapes."

I shook my head. "No, I really like this one. For whatever reason." I was a bit peeved that she seemed surprised at my interest. "Why, do you have something against this or something?"

She wiped the dust from her hands. "Well, no. I just think she looks evil. Those eyes, they are so distant, so cold. I'll charge you $75."

I took her.

I brought her upstairs to my new home, the first day of a new year and decade, and she fit beautifully by my bedside, and we became quick and close friends. However, her identity remained somewhat of a mystery to me. I decided to do some research.

From what I gathered, "Turandot" was the final work of the great Giacomo Puccini, and it was the tale of a princess (my framed friend) named Turandot. She was a beautiful girl and almost too clever for her own good. It soon grew time for her to choose someone to marry, and despite her good looks and choice of anyone in the lands, she wanted no men, and more than that, she wanted no one. To avoid having to make this decision, she would give any potential suitor three seemingly unsolvable riddles that they must answer. If they answered all three correctly, she would marry them. If they did not, they were to be beheaded. Suffice it to say, no one could solve the unsolvable and win Turandot's heart. Her mind was a crutch to avoid intimacy with others.

One day, however, a prince from a nearby land expressed interest in her. No one really knew his name. He was persistent (almost obnoxiously so), and would not leave until he could see Turandot and answer her riddles. She begrudgingly accepted, and began her questioning. The first question was as follows:

"What is born each night and dies each dawn?"

The prince answered, "Hope."

He was correct.

Coolly, Turandot posed the next question: "what flickers red and warm like a flame, yet is not fire?"

"Blood," the prince said.

He was correct again.

Slightly unnerved, the princess posed her final and most difficult question: "What is like ice, but burns like fire?"

The prince cried the correct answer immediately, "Turandot!"

She was disgusted. To be married? Let alone to an unknown? But he was relentless. Despite her unceasing requests for this stranger to go away at once and never return, he kissed her and held her in his arms. That initial contact, that human touch, was all Turandot needed. She was no longer imprisoned in her mind and no longer desired to be alone. She entered her father's throne, and introduced the name of her soon-to-be husband: "Love."

And it ended, and the two were wed. Happily Ever After.


However happy of a story that may be, it is important to note that Puccini died before finishing it. The final moments of that final act were not from his mind, but from another's. Another composer took on his vision, and intentionally or not, altered it (NB-it wasn't received well at all, the final act was called incredibly disjointed and an insult to Puccini's genius, and how sad it was that such a great would fade away with a second rate symphony). Beyond that, I somehow doubt that an old man on a death bed afflicted with throat cancer would have such a rosy outlook on life, anyway.

In Puccini's vision, maybe Turandot was successful at using her mind to make him leave, and maybe her feeling was only a temporary lift from her permanent numbness. Fire and ice are very difficult to get rid of, anyway. I doubt she believed in Happily Ever After to begin with.

I'm looking at her now, with those far away eyes, and am horrified at how perfectly she rests in my room among my things. It's almost as if she has been here all along, and is just now coming to the surface.

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

When I was a sophomore in high school, I hated my English class. My teacher was young and cool and didn't wear those sad black clogs that so many of the others did, but I still hated it. Each week we would have quizzes on different Latin roots, and very rarely was I valiant or victorious, and I certainly didn't greet those "beneficial" words with benevolence. And what's worse, we had to read Romeo and Juliet from old yellow textbooks that smelled of wilted cabbage and glue. It wasn't very romantic.

And then one day we got to the poetry section of our textbooks. And to be relevant to our class, my teacher made the astute observation that music is like poetry, and that for our first assignment, we were to take one of our favorite songs and analyze it for the class.

I had to do this once before in the eighth grade for my humanities class; it didn't go over well. "Seven Nation Army" by the White Stripes was apparently a bit inaccessible; all my teacher could say at the end was "Wow, that bass part is like a mantra." She was a lesbian and enjoyed eastern philosophy and fair trade coffee. No one else knew what that meant. But I also choreographed a dance to Pink Floyd's "Money," so I don't know why my classmates were so surprised at my musical selection.

Anyway, I wanted this one to be better. But, given my 15 year old status, my musical repertoire certainly was limited. I raced home and poured through my CD collection. The Beatles were too typical, Led Zeppelin were too sexy, and Green Day were too stupid. I tried to listen to the radio for help, but wasn't fond of anything there, either. It was all about "fucked" in all of its forms: getting, being (+ "up").

And then, for whatever reason, I picked up The Smiths. I'd never particularly cared for them; Morrissey always seemed a bit self-absorbed for my tastes. And anyway, he was just another annoying vegetarian. But then I started to listen to some of the lyrics, and things began to make sense.



It was my turn to go next. Katie had just finished presenting Shania Twain's simultaneously empowering and demeaning hit, "I Feel Like a Woman," and it went really well with the class. My teacher liked how Katie used poetic devices in her explanation of the song, but told her that just because Shania said she felt "like" a woman doesn't mean that it is a simile. But she clapped anyway and drew a red check plus next to her name. "Savannah," she said, "you're up."

My hands were shaking as I smoothed my pants and retied my pale yellow ribbon belt. I adjusted my pearls. "Hello," I said (why did I say that?), "I will be playing The Smiths' 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.'"

And I played all four minutes and five seconds of it. Images began to swirl about in my mind as Morrissey's voice entered my ears, and I remembered my first date when a boy, an older boy, came to my house in his car (and not just any car, but a yellow Xterra), and took me with him to see a comedy show. I remembered how I laughed at things I didn't think were funny, just because from the corner of my eye, I could see his teeth glittering like jewels as the comedian told jokes about penises. And it worked; after it was over he hugged my shoulder, the "C" his hand made fit my shoulder perfectly. He said it looked like I had a good time, we should do it again soon.

(We should do it again soon!)

And then on the next date, we went to eat and then to his older friend's house in his car, and I squinted my eyes so all of the street lights would become soft and fuzzy and round like when you look into a kaleidoscope. And I smiled brightly because I felt like I was in a dream. He was a boy who was smart and funny attractive and older than me and he liked me! Me, the girl who, after he came over to the house for the first time, had to blow dry the forest green pit stains out from her lime green shirt. And besides, he was playing Radiohead in the car. I felt like a woman.

"Driving in your car, I never never want to go home"

We got to the house before everyone else did, and all was dark in the car. We sat in an anxious silence; my heartbeat was faster than that of a jackhammer and I knew he had to hear it. But then he turned on "Farmhouse" by Phish. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, so I just breathed his scent. He smoked cloves and I thought that was exotic. And I looked at his eyes; they reminded me of the green traffic lights I saw when I squinted. And more than anything, I wanted to "Go!" but I couldn't.

"Oh God, my chance has come at last (but then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask)"

The guitar solo was halfway finished; I knew I had to move soon. But all of a sudden, two headlights illuminated us, and they never went out. His friends were here. And I looked down to my hands in disappointment, and saw his resting nervously atop mine. I didn't feel their weight until now. Scared, and growing brighter and brighter by the minute, I withdrew them. "I guess we'd better go now," I said.

The song was over.

My classmates didn't notice that the song had finished. No one said anything. They didn't know the words, and they were completely bored. Paul began to play on his Nokia. And I was offended--they weren't disrespecting me, they were pissing on Morrissey and my memories. I couldn't stand it; my cheeks grew hot and pink with impatience and I thought about my sweaty and paralyzed hands, and how stupid I felt after I tried to get close to him at the Belle & Sebastian concert when they played "Dress Up In You." He thought they were weird; I thought they were delightfully absurd. I thought about how, even after being tossed aside, his eyes were still more vibrant and vivacious than a green light that would never never go out, no matter how badly I wanted them to turn ugly and red. I would always remember Phish, and cloves and the sparkle of his teeth as they danced in a smoky blue haze, and most importantly, for the first time (not necessarily because of him), I felt alive and sexy and free.

"There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out"

My teacher asked if I was OK. Luke was copying his neighbor's Algebra II homework, and Paul had begun to flirt with Julie. Clay asked for the bathroom pass. They all seemed OK. I shook my head.

"I may not know many things, but if after listening to this song and these words, you decide to keep playing 'Snake' on your phone, you're not human."

I stared at Paul. He wasn't listening to me; Julie was massaging his fat shoulders with her small hands. They reminded me of dung beetles feeding on elephant feces.

"You people are all going to be happy, and it's not fair."

Paul closed his simple brown eyes and rolled his head back onto Julie's desk. She kept eating his shit up.

I lost it.

"You don't care about anything; not words, not love, not poetry, so you don't deserve any of it. I'm not going to explain this song to you because you'll never understand."

I didn't receive a check plus.

I took the bathroom pass from Clay, and ran out of the room. Then I took off my pearls. I stopped listening to Radiohead, and started reading real poetry. I also promised myself I would never smoke again. Later that day, I listened to my copy of "Farmhouse" and cried, and then I threw it away. Tried to throw away my memories too, but I couldn't. But why would I want to, anyway?

"There is a light and it never goes out."

the end of ostrich syndrome

In the moment, I'm dancing and
my legs are burning and
my blood is pumping and
I can taste the wind as it enters and exits my mouth like
a soft pink ribbon.
It's slightly sweet and
it lingers for a few moments on my lips.

I'm making it, I cry!
I'm making the wind!

But then I turn with too much vigor and I fall violently to the floor, and I'm hammered with the cold, hardwood fact that I'm just some girl alone in a white bloodless room, dancing pathetically to songs she doesn't even like.
And my lips are stained red; the dry heat of the room made them chapped and raw.

I have no partner, and no rhythm, just thin clumsy feet that trip on my:
knobby knees and
bony ankles that
look like those of an ostrich.

And then I pick myself up off the floor and turn off the noise, just to
bury my head in the sand. And
I feel so fucking stupid for thinking I could ever really dance to begin with.
A tiny red globule falls from my lips and onto my pale and worthless feet, and
I hate them and feel so heavy and so bound.

The word "good bye" exits my body with almost too much ease and
the soft and bloody 'b' evaporates quickly into the ether, punctuated by the gentle click of the white door. It's a pretty sound, and
delicate and
almost
brightly hopeless

and that light final click is the start of a new, more honest song.