(sk)etches: 1.037 / truth: i smell like The Worst

The Child Baptist in the Wilderness by Sir Joshua Reynolds (1776)

look cool. break your sternum.

last month, my friend got a DUI and i drove to eagan to pick her up and i brought her home with me and the next morning, i prepared for an interview, hosed myself with burberry, and drove my friend to her parents' house.  and last night i met that friend for a drink and asked if she would be so kind as to illustrate the interior of my locket necklace.  and the truth is, she was going to, but she said it smelled like The Worst Day of her Life.  what it smelled like was burberry, which is what i have been smelling like since December 25, 2010, which is the smell that makes my friend want to throw up.  so that's great.  i'm not exactly drowning in friends.  minnesota has 13,000 lakes and not one of them is full of friends.  and do you know what.  i took off my locket and submerged it in beer and my friend agreed to help me as long as i never smell like burberry again. 


one of my tasks as intern today was to go on a journey (that's literally how it was assigned to me by my supervisor) through the minneapolis skyways until i reached the 40th floor of the north building on south 6th street.  it took me 5x as long as it should have because i'm directionally challenged and i'm always late for everything no matter what.  on my way back to the suite, i shared a skyway with a nice young man who was talking to himself in at least 5 different voices, one of them a high-pitched female voice ranting about pressing rape charges.  another of my tasks as intern was to call people and present them with the opportunity to hang up on me.  another of my tasks was to order some much-desired dvds and a photography book for myself on amazon.com while eating carrot sticks.


i interviewed for a year-long Public Allies fellow position at a residential high school & professional development center in estes park, CO.  working there would be a miniature dream come true.  i won't get it.  i'll ruin my chances somehow.  like by blowing the interview.  or by being underqualified.  anyheck, the current life plan is to get that job or to tag along with the talented and best rose that i know all the way to chicago in search of adequate-to-fat paychecks.  i need to relocate.  i need to be young.  it's important.  i cannot live with my parents in the barren suburbs.  and now i am going to bed because it's 9PM and i can't keep my eyes open.

truth: now my blog is a journal

friday, you're walking down the street, you're walking up the street, it's one direction that you're moving to and from, you're in motion in relation to other moving points, you might be standing still or you might be full-stride dodging oncoming traffic, stepping aside to let others pass or watching others move for you, suddenly trying to decide whether there is more agency in action or in stagnation, in reaching out or in taking a stand.  you look into one person's eyes and feel nothing.  you look into the next person's eyes and the next and the next until you have to look down.  everyone is pretending, you think, they must be, and you curse the wind and you curse yourself for wearing a thin jacket the day after snowfall.  and then it's traffic, it's taillights and confetti cigarettes, cell phones and cold hands numb  at the wheel.  this is not an epiphany, this is no holy moment, there is no silver lining, and every car lurches along at 10 mph, stop-and-go like a dissected caterpillar whose legs carry on like phantom limbs, unaware of the disconnected interconnectivity of it all, the slow crawl toward whatever happens next.




saturday, hours and hours and bleach water-cracked knuckles, dishes filed wet, books on a shelf.  nickels and dimes and dollar bills worn soft from years of being passed between the same five, maybe six hundred wallets.  Stillwater, weather talk, old newspapers, Belgian chocolate stains in the carpet, nails jutting from the wall, a thing dying from the inside out, teeming with patrons, paper-wrapped croissants in hand, until its last day.  this was a mom-and-pop business for several years, now popless, how could you stand to work each day in a building steeped in memories of a relationship turned bitter, how could you smile and bake and smile and bake day after day.  how many times can you say "thank you" in an eight hour period?  how many pots of coffee can you brew?  how many smiles can you turn?  it will all change, things will shift, in time, you will hang your apron on a hook and forget that you own it.