a girl

She’s got make-up on her cup and her hair is slightly mussed
she’s not the girl that she always wanted to be
with the tired in her eyes, it comes as a surprise
when her life has passed her by

and she she wonders why?
why she cant deny
that her time just never came
and she wonders why
why it’s you and I
who changed and left her the same
it’s not who she wants to be
just who she is

there’s a feeling in her chest that she’s leagues behind the rest
though no one seems to care
and everybody knows, she gone as far as she can go
there’s nothing left for her here

But she shakes it off
in hopes that
one day her time will come
and she shakes it off
in hopes that
she’ll live before life’s done
and she’ll be who she wants be
not who she is

Lost and Found

Discovered words from another time and place. As I prepare to relocate, it is fortuitous that they now fall back into my hands.

*************************************
There stands the card table with meaningful mnuemonics etched into it's pleathery skin.

So Long Pinky, Here Comes The Thumb.

Scaphoid, Lunate, pisiform, hamate, capitate......Here comes what? So long Nikko....here comes what? So long poems, here comes what?? These questions, whose tiny toes of inquisition graze the quivering surface of deeper waters, frighten me. Beneath the sparkling azure, beyond today and tomorrow, there lies some unknown. An Answer? Another Question? The tentacled monstrosity of truth?

So long Nikko, so long poems read aloud within these stone walls. So long velvety mouth of my couch, of my life. As I plunge with the serenity that comes not from knowing your fate, but from accepting it's inevitability, I whisper to the dark expanse: Here Comes Me.

Vagaries of life and prose.

I wonder if it's all the rest of the world that's crazy or just me. I'm pretty sure I know what Occam would say......

But, is it not possible to be perched on edge of sanity and just then recognize how all the world really does it have it wrong? Isn't that from where the clearest view could be taken in? hovering above both extremes, potential for either lapping dangerously from all angles??


It's probably just me.

The long haul

Everyday is the same. I wake up with a sense of dread and turn to glance apprehensively at the clock. no matter what time it is 7 or 11, I cringe at the idea of having slept away precious learning minutes. As my lids weigh heavily down obscuring the view and lulling me back into sleepy denial, thoughts of bacteria, tumor staging and endless drug trivia release their painful grip. This is boards season.

Actually, the day usually looks up in those 20 minutes between coffee roused and over-caffeinated. It’s the act two in the monotony of the daily boards grind, the first act having ended with me lugging 30lb of books, computer, and stacks and stacks of scribble covered note cards to the library and unloading the vertebrae compactor into quiet corner. The coffee, coupled with a calorie laden bagel/creamcheese/tomato combo is a recipe for energetic over-inflation, which is about the only thing holding the lone strings of my sanity together. When on the west side, studying within the intimidating architecture of Columbia’s Butler library, there are 4 mexican men in a converted basement storefront who load me with enough xanthine to get a normal person through a day and a half, though they know I’ll be back in 5 hours. What began as a business relationship has delved into one of my most interpersonal interactions of the day, likely because I see so few people and talk to even less. Young and attractive as they are, I don’t mind their doting attention and sometimes linger for a minute or two after the void in my cup has been filled with warm wet nutrasweetened blackness.

Today, though, as is my custom on weekends, I am studying on the east side. With it’s streets lined with half the shops and three times the public housing, I have to admit, nothing feels more like home than this strange upper-east-harlem hybrid. Also admittedly, the caffeinating options are far more limited. I trip into the closest “cafe” that is little more than a glorified sandwich shop and am spotted immediately by my old friend who works behind the counter. I suppose one could make the argument that I’m using the term “friend” rather loosely, since I don’t even know his name, but the fact is that after pouring my coffee and mixing up handpicked salad creations for the past 2 years, I would say he knows me intimately enough to bare the title. He has my drug ready before I reach the counter and I show my gratitude with a swipe of the creditcard. On my way out I stop to pet a friendly golden lab tied tightly to drain pipe in front. Two boys dressed for the part of frat guys 3 & 4 in a summer teen dramedy, saunter out to tell me the dog’s name is Barrett. “Like barret’s esophagus?” I want to inquire, but I don’t. Doing so would lead me down a path of pedestrian confusion. Inevitably I would wind up explaining that I was sorry, but as a medical student, I couldn’t help the slippage of a few nerdy associations here and there. “Medical Student,” they would say, and then add praise or disbelief, followed by an awkward compliment. There may be a shrug or roll of the eyes, but that’s a rare occurrence. The fact of the matter is, once you tell someone you’re studying to be a doctor, or are a doctor, they’re generally waiting in line to tell you how great that is, whether they believe it or not...and they do so with the full awareness that you knew that they would. This knowledge of their knowledge of my knowledge is a pretty good reason not to mention my scholastic endeavors to strangers. It’s rather “braggy”. And when it’s not, it only comes off as a self serving narcissistic self endorsement.

And yet....

And yet...today I am fighting the raging urge to tell these boys. To tell everyone I come across, actually. To stand in the street with my white coat draped on one shoulder, stethoscope hanging with authority from my neck and inform each passerby that I’m studying to be a doctor. Ask them if they need my to take their blood pressure or check their reflexes, 2 of the 5 things I’m actually partially qualified to do. Qualification aside, I need, today, that praise like I’ve never needed it before. I am aching for it. Because when midnight rolls around and I’m sitting before this same computer or an opened book with 8 colors of penmarkings squeezed into the margins, when 1 am ticks by and I’m construction new acronyms to remember the divisions of the hypothalamus or the bacteria that have capsules, when 2 am arrives and I’m nestled into a ball on my bed, surrounded by neatly stacked piles of flashcards each one reminding me factoids about a drug who’s name I cannot pronounce, and I still haven’t saved a single life, or changed a single patient outcome, or made a single diagnosis or even unsheathed my pocketed hands to grasp another’s in weeks, I’m gonna need to know that I’m doing this for some fucking reason.

Crawling around in the filth of endless brutal factoids, I am reminded of the 90’s classic gameshow “Family Double-Dare”. The one in which reluctant parents are bullied by their 90lb offspring into carting them to and participating in what is effectively quiz bowl with ooey gooey food covered physical challenges. I’m sure the parents of those vivacious young ones, upon finding themselves between the folds of the 6 foot diameter pancakes into which they are layered along side gallons of sticky maple syrup and rapidly melting whip cream at some point stop and think to themselves “what the hell am I doing?” Then, feeling the wet penetration of elephantine proportioned condiments seeping through their monochromatic jumpsuits and beneath the chin-guard of their helmets, they see their screaming manipulators, joy (and a touch of sadism) twinkling in their youthful eyes. They know that forever, they will be able to share this day with their children and, amidst reminiscent laughter and bonding, remind them why they will be doing their chores without argument or protest until their cold crisp bodies are safely in the ground.

We all need that end-goal motivation. Everyday is just another day to me. Another earthly rotation. Another 24 hours in which I learn only half of what I endeavor to. But, reminded of my purpose by the encouragement of strangers or a glimpse of a white coat, confidently gliding off to save a life, or hold a hand, I zip higher my sweatshirt, fending off the library cold and uncap another highlighter. It’s a long lonely challenge set before me, but at least I’m not covered in whip cream.

Come home. Snoopy, Come home.

tDo you ever get the feeling that there is a giant "no Dogs allowed sign" posted all over your life. And you think "that's Odd, I wonder what they have against dogs". But every time you try and enter a new building or traverse some crossroad, the constant bellows of "back up bitch" leave a creeping sensation that the dog of which they speak, the one that's "not allowed", just maybe, possibly, could in fact be none other than you.

......Yeah. me either.......

The boards have me holed away in the mezzanine of one ivy league grad library--sinai was kind enough to spring for month long library passes to compensate for the endless construction taking place at our local study spaces. I used to wonder what it would have been like wandering these ivy coated halls. I think the dream dissipated over a number of years and gave way to a profound appreciation for my lucky entrance into medical school and successful endeavors to break the fuck away from the midwest (ah Mich, I miss you so). But now, as I slip passed the trigger happy guards (and by trigger, I mean pointer finger....towards the door) and into an otherwise gated community, I am like the tin can cooking, caboose car hopping transient peeking into the plate glass windows of societies upper crustiest.

And...

It's everything I imagined.

It is no exaggeration to say: I am more bitter than two year old cheese drippings crusted to the bottom of an easy bake oven. I am, as I type this, crafting time machine scenarios in which I bribe, blackmail, and maim to work my way into this my coveted institution. (In one of the scenarios I worked hard, got great grades and didn't show up 30 minutes late to interviews, but that scenario just seemed unreasonable). Of course, even then, with my school emblemed t-shirts and pearly smile (all ivy leaguers have flawless teeth), even then, in my own daydream, I find myself standing at the lion guarded gate and staring down the writing on the wall: "keep out, YOU"

Fine, sign. I catch your subtle hint. I guess there's something to be said for living on the outside of that plate glass window, where the grass has a scent and the breeze a tangibility. So, I return to the weather worn comfort of my second hand, triple patched, jimmy-rigged, duct tape smattered life. Where the brick has no ivy and the writing on the wall is actually graffiti. But the sprayed on lettering reads just right: "Welcome".

The Turn

So much of life is spent shuffling and re-shuffling the few cards dealt you. Odds are furiously calculated. Every hope is place on that next revelation: the flop. the river. the showdown. But in the end, we never know just how good life is till nothing is left faced down on the smooth green felt of our existance. And yet, at some point in the game, you get this feeling that in any other setting could be appropriately called a premonition. The disjointed nature of Gods plans somehow drift together with purpose and your future becomes frighteningly and sometimes even, wonderfully clear: The turn.

When one happens upon the transient lucidity of their very own future focused turn, one can only in vain hope to be left unchanged. There is little else to do but embrace the gift of foresight. And, of course, don't be surprised if you find yourself, while basking in the warm sun spots of this illuminating occasion, unconsciously flossing loose lipped smiles and staring into what only you know to be so much much more than empty space.

Waiting is for wusses. Enjoy life now.

....And all of them crazy

It is chrismas time again, and it couldn’t feel any less so. In fact, I wish it wasn’t. Usually, it’s the lights and the smell of pine I enjoy. I watch reruns of every overly broadcast holiday special. I bake cookies and pies and cuddle in front of the tree and think about snow. Usually, I love christmas. But this year, I wish it would just cease to happen. I pray for a collective amnesia. People everywhere neglect to shop, wrap and carol. Racking my neurology laden memory bank, I am contemplating the phenomenon’s probability.

Perhaps just a familial forgetfulness is in order. They could, so consumed by work or the streaks on their window panes, find diversions such as holidays frivolous affairs. “What’s that? Fruit Cake? Oh dear, I havent a clue what youre talking about, I really must return to my house cleaning.” Preoccupied, as such, they would fail to notice my otherwise obvious absence and I would not be required to feign non-embittered feelings towards them.

Of the holiday triad (consumption, dysfunction and miracles) this maybe that one christmas component I’ve always been missing.

Dysfunction I’ve had in spades: the alcoholic relatives swallowing nickels at the bids of 9 year cousins, the sisterly fights over who cooks what and why everything tastes like rotting oysters, the fits of fury over what are obviously salvation army acquired gifts by wealthy step-grandmothers, tearful mornings marked by multiple boxes of slippersocks, and abrasive accusations by would be mother in-laws. This, though, is not family dysfunction in its truest form. This is the type of vicious, malicious, bad blood that is precipitated by egg nog and holly leaves. It runs in our veins with a half life of 24 peppermint flavored hours.

Real dysfunction is the kind that is dammed by the blubbery butt of jolly old saint Nick, not loosed by it. For one day, it is our daughterly/sisterly/motherly duty to behave as though you have not spent numerous guilt ridden nights tossing and turning in your utter contempt of these people you are currently dining with, laughing with, and shoveling hard earned dollars into the pockets of Macy’s stockholders for. Wine and tree shaped cookies consumed in diabetic proportions, will no doubt “take the edge off” but only until the cheap merlot has worked itself into a headached frenzy and you are forced to confront the fact that you are shipwrecked in a sea of crazy. The twinkling lights strangling every fir branch in the yard, seem to blink out in true morris code fashion, S.O.S. and you cannot help thinking, as you choke down three year old ribbon candy:touché.

While the trite, toothy conversation about movies recently slept through and the drama of living with 300 other people braving their 20’s as though they are the pioneers of untraversed territory maybe nauseating, it is heartening to know that there is something quite worse: Being “that girl”. Oh you know the one of which I speak. She spends her evenings feeding her cats oreos and has framed pictures of movie of the week television stars on every wall. She can quote anything you ask her to, the bible, the satanic bible, and even more heathenistic, bridget jone’s diary. She’s convinced that her life will eventually have the sacchariney sweet ending of a romantic comedy. And every christmas she hand makes anything from crocheted doilies to cellophane draped fruitcake for everyone she knows, because, well, she’s got just that much time. While you brave the wintery cold of the festival of lies that most call home for the holidays, she microwaves mashed slices of ham for each of her ten kitties and says grace around the eleven place dinner table (did you get that the other places are for mittens, boots, and Mr. buttons, et al?). The idea of be coming "that girl" has even the most loathing amongst us packing our bags and checking our boarding passes twice. A few dizzying hours around a tin christmas tree wearing waxy, jaw clenching grins and nodding agreement about any and every topic that may come up is, it turns out, salvation......In it’s most bitterly ironic form, yes, but salvation none-the-less.

So, like a 34th street miracle, I ring the bell, hold my box of wine high, and toast these christmas angels that have saved me from an even blacker black christmas.


Happy Holidays! And an intoxicated New Year!




*this is a dramatization....kinda....but at least i changed the names to protect the semi-innocent

Breathless, again.

Flaming leaves, brisk evening walks
it's fall, season of memories.....

Escuchela, la ciudad respirando
escuchela la ciudad respirando
escuchela...escuchela...escuchela

One Breath
he breaths in cyanide, it's not him but me that died
New to the world, eyes open wide
hearing nothing but truths though it's telling him lies
He and I are the same, but I can't play life's game
He wonders why I start to cry, sputter truths then start to die
"Why can't I give what you need? It's not that hard concrete"
He smiles sweet and serene not knowing what I mean
He doesn't want charity, he's a rarity
At nine he thinks the world's benign,
with all his suffering far behind:
no dinner on your plate, dad's home late,
apartment for two, but its sleepin eight
he's thinkin: anomaly
not fate
I spell the word 'precursory'
he takes my breath from me
as he confides, "you can't divine your life or mine"
Fine.
But i see your future on a stake, flames creepin, ready for the take
You're too young to know this fire cant be stopped, its beyond wild
Thats why for now, i claim you as my monday's child






*thanks to blackstar for beat and opening vocals

Life in a nut Shell

OOOoooooh the crocodile went to the dentist
and he sat down in the chair
and the dentist said, now tell me sir
why does it hurt and where......

sounds familiar, no?

....aaaand he opened his jaws so wide so wide
that the dentist he jumped right inside
and the dentist laughed, Oh isnt this fun
as he pulled the teeth out one by one.....

NOW YOU'VE GOT IT!! it's one of life's most salient lessons. In fact, it's the story of so many relationships, friendships, human interactions.

....the crocodile said you're hurting me so!
please put down your pliers and let me go!
But the dentist just laughed with a HO HO HO
and said Ive still got twelve to go...

You have to wonder how long youre obligated to sit in that freakin chair, letting life's proverbial tooth pullers reek havoc on your precious pearlies before biting back.

....OOPS that's the wrong one I confess,
but whats one crocodile tooth more or less??....

See, the irony is that the strongest of us, or maybe even the strongest IN us, can be completely undone by a tiny man and his...instrument. So small is he that he may fit into the palm of your hand, the crease of your molar, the crux of your arms or the enveloping warmth of your heart. Like the blunted legs of the pliers, strength comes not from the sadist's stature, nor his weapon of choice, but from what he wields it against. For the dentitionally sensitive, feathers alone could offend.

.....And suddenly his jaws went SNAP!!
and the dentist was gone, right off the map...

But, perhaps a little heartache....or toothache is a small price to pay. After all, jumping out of the chair before recognizing the true nature of your hell spawned hygenist will only lead to repeat patronizations. Better to see the experience through to it's sometimes hard to swallow ending. Because really, the revelation is what counts. Sure, life is painful, but nobody said wising up was easy. Just like nobody said letting go wasn't hard.

....But what's one dentist...more or less?



poem courtesy of shell silverstein

Did you do something different to the place?

There's a buddhist parable I sometimes ponder. It starts with a house. Inside the house lived a father and his three sons. The obvious gender bias in the parable should not yet detract, because these men are about to embark on a rather interesting journey...of sorts. This house was on fire. The father, being both a patriarch AND wise, recognized the danger of a flaming home and tried to coax his progeny to safety. The endeavor was in vain, not because the sons felt the warmth of burning timber was particularly fetching, but rather because they were completely unaware of the impending doom surrounding them. In fact the sons were so enamoured with the glittering baubles that littered their death trap, they could not be convinced that there was or ever would danger in remaining there. Try as he may, the father was unable to convince them otherwise. Eventually, Hippined to their materialistic game, He decided to abandon hope that his children would open their eyes to the truth of their surroundings. Instead, he settled for luring them to safety with the promise of an even greater gilded glory. To the Sons he said, "My children, outside awaits carts filled with treasures more than you see before you here." The bid of luxury was sufficiently strong, and the sons rushed to safety, expecting to find what was promised them.

I suppose if you have boddhi-clination (as I like to call it), you would point out to me that the father and burning house bare an uncanny resemblance to Buddha and the great Karmic cycle respectively. I, being neither buddhist nor too religiously informed would likely smile and nod. I guess I might feel the tiniest amount of humiliation in revealing, to a boddhisattva such as yourself, that to me this is a story of human survival and not supreme enlightenment.

I hava a friend....we'll call her....Sassandra. She recently woke to find a fire lapping at the fringe of her bed sheets. Now, Sassandra, being no bauble beguiled fool, hastily transported her inflammable ass to a less toasty locale. However, it seems that, in her well informed haste, she left behind her reluctant heart. So what does one do to protect it's most vitalist of organs, most seatiest of soul positions? How can one's heart be coaxed from the perilous emotional conflagration plaguing all of our lives? Do we allow it to linger amongst the memories-resign it to a crispy fate? Or do we lure it away with the promise of all that was and more? I'm sure, by the parable chosen, it's easy to deduce to what tactics our young protagonist resorted.

I suppose at the end of the day, lying about a cart full of trinkets in an effort to save your loved ones from eternal suffering is a sin smaller than lying to yourself about emotional salvation in exchange for the opportunity to temporarily inhabit another house before playing the entire flame game all over again. But I like the parable none the less.

Real Life.

"Hi Cassandra. This is Dr.******. I've got your abstract in front of me.....it looks really good.

RELEIF.

"Anyway, if you want to call me back, I'll be in my office till quarter to six..."

I check my watch. 6:15. Too late, I think. and press 7.

"Hello, this message is for Ca-Ca-Cassandra Taaah-mack. It's in regards to your student loan...please call us back at....

7. 7. 7. Delete delete delete. The man at the Begetable stand across the street waves towards my stoop.

"Ello Mamita. You want a coke?" I smile and shake my head. "Ow about agua, mamita?" I continue to bare my overly toothy smile, jaw aching, and shake my head a bit more vigorously. Returning my gaze to my lap, I flip a few magazine pages. This is the international signal for 'leave me alone.' He gets my polite hint.

"...these videos will be charged to your account if they are not returned by..."

I mutter a few curse words and scribble "bbuster" in my dusty palm. Summer in the city is known for the thin layer of dust is castes on...everything. I flip a few more pages. Abandoned subscriptions by past tenants have left my apartment littered with issues of Men's Health and "Real Simple Magazine". I am pawing through the newly delivered installment of the latter. Beautifully tanned people, lithe and laughing, are clinking together glasses of zinfandel.

"where are you lame-o?? pick up the phone....

Jose. 7.

heeeeey caaaaass...i'll be back on the...

kiela. 7. some guy wondering why I stood him up....again. 7. bill collector. 7. An old Miles message. 7. And…….is this message from Justin?? Jesus, it's months old. 7. 7. 7. I turn the page.

Simplify Your Life!! What are you waiting for??

I look down at my now alphanumerically encrusted palm. What am I waiting for?? I thought about all the tasks I had not yet completed with the sun mocking me from behind a low building. "Chase me!" it taunts. There are bank deposits to make and folks to call back. Dishes to be washed, videos begging for return. emails, research projects, and dirty clothes all with my name written on them. What AM I waiting for, I think. After all, my life is not barreling down the road to simplicity. I certainly am not studying to become the village ascetic. And casting off worries and responsibilities along with material possessions does not seem like med student protocol. There’s just too much to do, and frankly, too much to have. You need to look spiffier. Have better study aides. practice with the best tools. Sure the administration tells you not to worry about it. And gunners endeavor to convince that they’ve sworn off text books….and so should you!! But, she who rocks the same clinical clothes every week salvaged from her high school ‘Sunday best’ collection will certainly not be laughing last…..unless, of course, she joins in with all the others laughing at her.

And then, of course there’s my career to worry about. Without the somewhat imperative medical community connections so many of my peers seem to be born with, one must work harder for every job and shine a little brighter in every interview. If you lack the genetic membership that being born with a penis will allot you, you must be sure to have that many more positive patient outcomes. If your skin seems not quite lily white enough, if your eyes sparkle with a less then azure coloring, if your parents aren’t named Smith, Browning, or Daniels, if your hair fails to lie flatly on your precious tinted scalp, if you roll your R’s, or fail to annunciate the r’s in whatever and you’re (as in “whateva, you don’t know me” or “that’s why you about to get hung up on”) you can bank on having to work two times as hard for half the recognition….and appreciation. And no matter how hard you work, how white your coat, or how large the stitching in those illustrious two letters….M…D….there will always be someone there to call you “Nurse”.

There’s your family to worry about, if they have neither retirement fund nor stock portfolios. How will you afford their care? Especially if you plan to spend the 20 years after you start signing your checks Thomas, M.D. sending said checks to POS Bank Branch, Loan Department? you could possibly compromise your principles and go into dermatology, radiology, or some other field guaranteed to have your head above interest rated waters and singing the praises of your rich republican patients, but where will that leave your soul? Hopefully aforementioned soul will be satisfied with full length suede coat, fendi purse, and enough blahniks to fill your in ground olympic size pool.

No, life is certainly not on its way to becoming innately simpler, not without a little help from me…and the editors of this veritable goldmine of information and advice disguised as complacency propaganda.

What AM I waiting for, indeed. Real Simple is Real Right. I should be sloughing off the excess and making more me time. I should be bogging myself down with less working worrying and studying and more…more zinfandel, more milk baths, more spa days, and, of course, more time with my abercrombie boyfriend….Todd. Thank You, Real Simple, for putting real shit in real perspective for me.

I turn the page and am urged to save 20% at some store I’ve never heard of on some brands I’ve never seen. Sweeeeet I say aloud and wet the folded edge of the coupon with a spit moistened finger. You can’t beat 20% off a life I’ll never live.

delete. delete. delete.

Round and Round

Someone, obviously entirely more tech savy than I, found my unprotected personal files on my very unfirewalled and very networked computer. In sifting through the pictures and rambling word documents to determine just how humiliated I should feel, I found what is to follow. I can't help but chuckle at how dead on I was. Now at the bottom of that frightening plunge, I can hardly remember the taste of anxiety I previously felt. Though, while stronger, I can't claim to be any smarter, which makes me wonder the value of it all was. Too bad what doesn't kill also doesn't make you richer. I think I could live with the value of that lesson.

**********************************
Some clichés prove to be worth their repetitive weight in truth. You hear these phrases when they will be most helpful and only come to appreciate them when they have finally manifested their purpose in your life and are no longer of any use. Is it so impressive that we do not trust them at their utterance?

In our (that is human) defense, most clichés are but partial truths, rendering themselves less then trust worthy at their immediate inception. For example, it’s true that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger-yes. But the adage is lacking in completeness. Because, honestly, what doesn’t kill you does make you stronger…..but only after it tears you down, breaks you apart and makes you wish it had twisted the knife a little to left completing its mortal mission. And, if we’re being utterly candid, it must be said that the next time any situation which could be used to illustrate this concept occurs, prior experience with perseverance in the face of horrifying, earth shattering, gut wrenching pain will be of little use and the entire lesson must necessarily be relearned.

It is to be expected that when faced with said repeat offender, the individual will accept the cliché’s sometimes credibility but attribute a certain ‘specialness’ to the current situation, which can be likened to a get out of cliché free card. “Sure sure, it made me stronger last time, but this time is different—this time it might JUST be fatal.” However when time has dulled the edge of pain that comes from the recall of said experience, one will laugh at and lament his or her inability to admit, initially, the validity of our familiar anecdote.

In knowing all this, you would think MY current situation would be a bit more…..palatable. comprehensible, even. but it’s not. the lessons past experienced seem somewhat…inapplicable. And while the brief appearance and reappearance of certain individuals in my life bear a decided resemblance to a current bit player’s manifestation in my daily existence, I find myself wondering if, unlike before, I will fall victim to this strife and self pity, never again seeing the light of happiness.

Sure, I’ve gained enough wisdom to recognize my proximity to the end of the plateau before I find my feet have wandered over the edge of the cliff, but there is very little practical use in this knowledge as it does not diminish my desire to continue along the fateful path. The value lies solely in having a vague idea of what’s about to happen before anything actually transpires. Yet like a child strapped snuggly into the car of her favorite rollercoaster, I never fail to scream at the pinnacle of each ascent, am powerless to do little else but speed down the stomach churning hill, and, defenseless against the sheer magnetism of the excitement, find my self repeatedly patronizing the sadistic contraption. So here I am again, waiting bitterly at the top of my own personal space mountain, teetering on the precipice of a yet another painful plunge into self effacing pity. Perhaps, though, this time is different. Perhaps those sonorous words are what reassure me as I grip the handrails which promise to grip me back, ensuring that, truly, this will not kill me.

The things she carries

I have his keys.

I don't know him anymore and this, of course, suggests that I may never have known him.

Thinking you know someone is a cliche.......

I thought I knew him.

Now all I have are his keys and I wonder if they still fit those locks. I wonder what would happen if I just showed up to test these keys. If I just appeared, sitting cross legged on the floor of my past.

I can't remember why I left, but there was a reason. It's probably the same reason I'll never go back.

So why do I still have his keys?

Colors start to fade
And the day wanes with the sun
Don't hold on too tight

In this shit life
we must chuck some things, we must chuck them
in this shit life

Mrs. G and i have adopted one another. We make a rather remarkable pair, she and I, mostly because if there was a world population inclusive list of who we might choose to adopt or be adopted by, I don't think either one of us would rank in the other's top 100...or 1,000, frankly. I know I should not be so overcome by our differences, yet I cannot help feeling that our backgrounds are not only dissimilar, but often at odds with one another.

Mrs. G often tells me of her granddaughter, though not nearly as often as she raves about her vocabulary savvy, biological grandson. But she does mention the girl every now and again. She'll revel in her daughter-in-law's generous nature, validated by their "adopted chinese daughter". I'm not sure if I'm acutely aware of this little girl's ethnic claim because I made note of it the first time it was mentioned or because I've made note of the fact that it is always mentioned. Regardless, the praise for her "true, you know, biological family" as she puts it, ends there and she moves on to the 'brave' adoptee. "She does well...considering," I am told by Mrs. G. At this point I generally ponder, behind my smiles and nods, whether what should be considered is the fact that she is adopted, the fact that she is chinese, or the fact that she is missing a few fingers on her left hand. I'd like to believe it's the lack of digits that Mrs. G is referring to, but it's more likely something else.

It's not that I believe Mrs. G is a card carrying KKK member who lunches with the grand wizard and refuses to eat neopolitan ice cream on general principle. She doesn't have to be Hitler disguised as a kindly elderly lady who lavishes strangers with stories and chocolate covered pretzels to evoke feeling of....discomfort. She only has to be exactly what she it: aware of race. I certainly do not believe in 'color blindness', yet there is something incredibly wrong with wearing your race like a definitive adjective. Beyond anything I will ever do or be, I will always just exist as 'black' to her....maybe even 'colored'. In her eyes, my actions, my words, every step I take are all products of my race, because it is my defining attribute. How can you befriend one who sees not your soul, but the case in which you carry it?

Still, one can never discount the power of a common thread in the quilt of our humanity. Mrs. G is a woman abandoned. While she nurtured the world with her strange brand of love, it was plotting against her. And now, when she has not the time or strength to turn back to the beginning of her life and choose a path with a different destination, she finds herself bound to a lonely fate. It would be entirely too depressing to admit that all living creatures, from birth to death, are in some sense alone, regardless of such a claims validity. And, anyway, her solitude is not what draws me to her. It is her karmic battle. She is fighting her destiny with unwaning determination. I watch her pound against the steel of her cage, pulling back bloody fists from dintless walls and know exactly how she feels. I too bare the scars of fruitless fights, from which I will never back down. Are we not all marred in that way? Carrying with us arms that hang limply from swimming against the currents of current thought? Withstanding the burn of a throat hoarse from shouting through the din of conformity? Are we all not fighting to be our individual selves in a world that prizes homogeny above all else?

Mrs. G and I rarely talk of things of consequence. I flip through photos of her irreverent family and she poses questions I've answered for her so many times before. We repeatedly comment on the size of our meals, the chill of the room, the length of the summer evening. Our conversations are forgotten before we complete them. The silence is what connects us. In those shared quiet moments, we reflect upon why it is we are here together. I see in her my struggle and she sees in me hers. Such thoughts are only rarely realized and never spoken. And when the brief silence passes, she passes to me another picture of her 'chinese granddaughter' who is 'doing well, considering' and I smile. And nod.

He

He sits on the stoop when the sun's out. He doesn't talk too much. He just sits. And watches. He watches the raucous He watches the dogs. He watches the children. He watches the wind get tangled in leaves. He watches it all. When I see him on the stoop I respectfully take off my headphones, I shift my cell phone to the other ear, I pry my eyes from my book and wave hello. When he sees me from his stoop, his face lights up. I'm used to that though, so it's easy to ignore. He is unable to break through my sheilded existance

He lives here, I know. But, I never see him in the building. Only when the sun is out. Only when he occupies my stoop, do I notice his presence. He is not a tenant to me, he is a fixure.

Today the sun is out and like lawn furniture back from it's winter hiding place, he is returned to my stoop. He is eating tangerines and watching the side walk shadows drift. Peels and pits halo his feet. I am ready to return his greetings in a detached manner and am caught off guard by a gift. This is for you his sticky, outstretched palm bares the fruit of his afternoon snack. His voice is laden with excited anticipation. Thank You!, my tone is that of kindergarten teacher. I turn to face the building door, standing, key sheathed in lock, the realization that I am the recipient of a strangers gift settles upon me. I join him on our stoop.

********

We tracked the shadows together, not knowing much about one another, except that we were neighbors...perhaps even friends. Finally, he asked me if I liked music and intoxicated by the sunny peacefulness of our stoop, I waxed dreamily about my love of Miles Davis. He peppered my soliloquy with grunts and sighs of agreement. When returned the question, he spattered words sewn together with hand movements and bouts of befuddled silences. At anyother time or in any other place, I imagine this would all have been quite inscrutable, but I followed his thoughts with ease, interjecting the words that craftily eluded him. His musings meandered considerably and settled on his past. He confided about his days "eating crack" and I couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't the root of his noticable mental....lapse.

Eventually, after he had accepted my excuse about needing to walk the dog, I peeled my self from the warmed concrete and dawdled up the stairs to my apartment, thinking furiously the entire way. I wondered at his solitude and his obvious contentment with such an existence. I wondered at his seemingly defenseless life: He shared himself and his affection so freely that I could not help envisioning an open wound, begging for infection. He is so different then I, I thought. I carry my entire life wrapped neatly and inconspicuously in a tiny lockbox that remains gaurded by my sarcasm and silence. And yet, during our breif encounters, his joy is unfaltering-absolutely impenetrable by the teasing of passing adolescents, by my obvious indifference, by his unaccompanied afternoons on our stoop.

I marvel at the idea of such an unfettered state of being. He is more protected by his unencumbered happiness than anyone could be by iron clad defenses and secreted emotions. Ironic, I think, and hastily type away, sharing my thoughts only with the anonymous abyss of the blog.

A girl by any other name

**wrote this a few days ago. Damn blogger. Anyway, all the names and medical information have been changed, duh! HIPAA!! HIPAA!!**

Today, for the first time ever, I was introduced as Dr. Thomas. Okay, maybe not the first time ever. But, until today, the words Dr. Thomas have been reserved for mocking friends and classmates on whom I'’m practicing my physical exam. However, this morning was different.

I followed closely at the heels of my pulmonary fellow. I call her mine because I was assigned to her, but in the hierarchy of medical practitioners, she reigns as close to supreme as a lowly first year medical student is likely to get, so it is more appropriate to assign the title of proprietor to her. She rounded the corner, white jacket billowing importantly, and stopped abruptly in the middle of a tightly packed waiting room. It occurred to me that these patients nervously awaiting their medical sentencing were quite unaware of the 9 or 10 fellows attendings and students casually chit-chatting on the other side of that bleak gray wall. Ms. Torres? Ms. Torres? The authority with which Dr. Leana hurled the words rendered the question a command. A bulky woman hurriedly gathered her belongings, including a teenaged daughter and rose to meet the command of Dr. Leanas small stature. Terrific. Great. I'’m Dr. Leana and this is Dr. Thomas. Follow me. The three thoughts were so rushed I almost missed it. Dr. Thomas?? Had she really just introduced me to a patient as Doctor?? In the time it took her to exhale, my fellow had assigned to me years of authority and experience I was no where near deserving.

I began to think to myself: I have barely a single year of medical education under my belt...is that enough to warrant such a title? Perhaps the last three years are just filler compared to the rollercoaster of courses I'’ve recently survived. I did do remarkably well on many of my exams (I swallowed back thoughts of the microbiology final). Already, I could feel the anxious pride trickle in. My White Coat felt whiter, somehow, despite the coffee stains that speckled the cuffs and smatterings of similac across my left arm. I was important. I was the link between well and unwell for Ms. Torres and now she knew it. And I knew it. And I knew she knew it. Was she comforted by the sight of me, Dr. Thomas?

I looked to check. Hi I said, with as much authority as that brief salutation would allow, and extended my hand. She took my hand in hers, which was leathery and warm, and covered the union with her other hand. Her eyes met mine directly and she replied, Hell-low, Dear in a tone used by kindly grandmothers on 5 year olds who spontaneously declare their life's ambition is to be a fireman....or a pterodactyl....or both: a pterodactyl fireman. Of course you're a doctor, sweetheart she said silently with her two handed shake and large engaging eyes. I was instantly deflated. The coffee and similac stains settled back into the fabric of my boxy yellowed coat, returning me to my reality: I am a child parading around in big girl shoes.

I followed Dr. Leana through the labyrinthine hospital halls once again, Ms. Torres and daughter bringing up the rear of our bizarre parade. Once settled in the exam room, I took my usual place in which ever corner was currently on reserve for medical students and cleaning crew (the only individuals to take less precedence) and listened carefully to the the patient history as it unfolded. As the embarrassment of my earlier delusion evaporated from my mind I begin to instinctually piece Ms. Torre’s case together. Later, when my fellow and I were secreted away in the physician lounge (which is really an enclave originally intended for mops and brooms, i think) she would show me the Torre’s Labs and we would discuss the physical findings, Did you hear those lung sounds? she would inquire. I did, they were localized to the middle right lobe. I noticed she was tachycardic, too. We poured over CTs and I silently formulated my differential as Dr. Leana presented the case to the attending.

When my time in the clinic was over I gathered my stethoscope, which, unlike Dr. Leana’s bares no scars or scratches, and shoved a handful of physical exam '‘cheat sheets'’ into my pocket. It wasn'’t until I was on the elevator it occurred to me. Perhaps I am just a child in big girl shoes, but Ms. Torres was not my grandmother and I am no pterodactyle inspired 5 year old. These shoes which loll haphazardly on my too small feet fit a little better every day. Sure, I'’m no physician, but I can be a damn good medical student. And that'’s not half bad...when I'm humble enough to recognize it.

Dreamer

I am wishing I was someone else today. Someone with air conditioning.

Late Encounters

Strangely, I don't think of my family very much. They're distant figures in the fog of my memory. Which is ok with me, I like to focus my energy on important stuff....like TV. Every once in a while, though, some tangible remnant of their existences will surface and I am seized by a longing to see them again.



When I am late, I'm focused. There's a checklist in my mind which remains absolutely impermeable until all tasks have been completed: find ID, pack stethoscope and Ipod, feed nikko, turn off all lights, 2 dollars for coffee-no matter how late I am, I always have time to stop for coffee. As per my usual routine, today I was running late. By the time I made it to the unforgiving elevators (not even having five of them in one bank permits their timely arrival) both my ice coffee and I were sweating. Running over my mental check list one last time, I barely registered the whistler approaching. It wasn't until he stood a few feet behind me that I was seized with excitement. His breath passed his teeth in a hiss: a lipless whistle, the type I have not heard since I was nearing double digits. I was swimming in adrenaline and thoughts of my uncle, who made this kind of music as he ate his evening hydrox or read the paper. I could smell the menthol and tobacco that had always clung to his skin. In that elevator bank, something strange happened to me: I devolved. There was no composure, no control. My heart slammed against it's walls and I struggled to move air in and out of my lungs. I wanted to believe that it was Jim standing behind me. That I would turn and he would smile as though this were an every day occurrence. He would ask me about my plans for the day and I prattle on aimlessly for a bit. In the end there would be nonchalant 'see ya laters' because we would know that we would indeed see each other later. The elevator came and I heard him shift restlessly as white coats poured out with quick and heavy footsteps. For a moment I stood fixed: in that spot, in that time, in that delusion. He brushed my arm as he passed, his cigarette scent trailing. I didn't have to glance down at my watch to know how late I was. But, I did. I didn't have to peer down the hall to know that it was empty. But I did. The doors closed. The elevator rumbled, shuttling my unseen relative back into my past leaving me behind in the echoing bank. alone, once again.

Just another day at the bitch beach

I am fairly certain that we all have people in our lives that we wish weren’t. They are those particularly irritating individuals that, like stubborn grains of sand in our panties, can ruin even the most pleasant day at the beach. The worst ones are, again like panty sand, undetectable by others around us-friends, family….pets. While the injury is in our unwanted companion’s stank behavior, the insult is in their ability to go unnoticed as they pour acid rain down onto our otherwise sunshine filled day. This is, of course, a highly biased assessment of the situation. But I’m unapologetic. Not because I don’t care, but because the virulence of these individuals is not the point of my current musing. Instead, I dwell on a happier thought (and occurrence): the vindication experienced when panty sand shows his or her proverbial ass to all those who always doubted your assessment of their character.

Picture this: five minutes into Hollywood’s latest contribution to the espionage genre, a seemingly benign individual graces the screen. Without attention given to dialogue or context, you declare that this is the ‘bad guy’. Of course no one believes you, and because more consideration was given to your gargantuan tub of popcorn and atherosclerotic plaques in the making then to the plot which was likely constructed by some rich producer’s ten year old, they seem justified in their dissent. But you retain the conviction of your hypothesis. Why? Is it the handlebar mustache or the way the proposed villain strokes said facial hair with skinny elongated fingers? Perhaps it’s the figure eight eye mask, black and white striped shirt, and burlap sac bearing the well-known dollar symbol clenched in his non-mustache fondling hand. Whatever it is, it’s obvious to you and mind baffling that this would go unnoticed by your peers. Your time will undoubtedly come, though, ten minutes before the credits roll. This of course is not always the case with non-silver screen people. You may go an entire life time alone in your understanding of someone’s “crappiness”. So when one of these real life under-cover enemies reveals their true nature to mutual acquaintances, it is as delicious as it is rare.

Perhaps it’s vindictive and childish of me to relish such moments as they may come. But I cannot help reveling in the feelings of vindication. So I do so, with childlike enthusiasm…..and it is magnificent.

Nostalgia

Me and Carra last summer: I remember our endeavor to photograph everything that is inane and frame the fruits of our labor. Endless shots in sepia: her lips, my cup, our feet.

I came across those photos today and they made me miss her. Thoughts of other friends were kindled. I thought of relationships long dissolved; 'conflagrated' bridges. Snide comments that severed the veins of diseased friendships. I let my mind wander aimlessly over lost companions: old classmates, disappearing cousins, indifferent crushes.

Winter at 22: Strands of flaming red hair pass in and out of view as I spin on the Dianna Ross playground tire swing. We talk disparagingly about our nasty, slow witted, or unfriendly co-workers. We rehash conversations had with the particularly jocular or fetching employees. There are lamentations about a godzilla-esque assistant manager, Coke jokes about a leathery skinned boss. I recall the reassuring euphoria that comes from sitting in the park at midnight with a close friend.

16, Ferndale, MI: With quiet effort I dab my sweaty forehead with a sleeve. The warbled voice of stevie wonder is permeating the thick unconditioned air of his living room. It smells like warm wood. We scribble nonsensical farewells into each other’s yearbook. We laugh as he gives voice to the many personalities that invade his mind. Goodbyes are hugged. Love that he will never be fully aware of is slowly cultivated.

A montage: He is three years my junior. He calls me sha sha. At four he is waiting for me in his ghostbusters uniform, insisting on being called peter venkman. We are caught smuggling candy from the gingerbread house into the car to be privately devoured-he immediately rolls and I am fingered as the mastermind. There is a fort of giant primary colored Waffle blocks, An alliance for the greater good of beating Donky Kong Country. We hastily snap Polaroids and tape them onto poster board. I am angrily ordering him out of my room, out of my teenage life, not realizing that I will never see him again.

I wonder at the passing of loved ones. We meet we love we lose. We share one common moment, A second in galactic time. But the importance is made evident by their eternal impressions. I remember forever her words, his laugh, the sound of him crying. Should I love less because I realize the inevitability of a painful loss? Should I take to relationships with even more apprehension and suspicion? I don’t know. But I do know that I will recall the scent of your pillow when your head no longer rests there and search for your face in crowds when you no longer grace me with your presence. Like those that came before you, you will leave behind a memory which will remain with me forever.