Of night and light and the half-light.

The most adored memory I have of my childhood is just a feeling, really. There is no particular day that it impressed me and there is no specific reason. Just a warm, recurring feeling experienced throughout my childhood. It is that feeling (and how it's intensity has sadly faded) of falling asleep in the backseat of a car that had been in motion for what seemed forever then came to rest in a chilled garage. Of being wrapped in my father's jacket and carried to my bed. The feeling of my mother's hands on my skin as she gently tugged my clothes off and slipped my nightgown on while I half-slept. The yellowish glow of light from the hallway. My father's low murmurs as he tucked my sister into her bed in the next room. The gurgle of the humidifier. My mother placing a small, flowered Dixie cup of water on my nightstand. The smell of clean sheets and real vanilla beans on my dresser. My father's weight easing down beside me on the mattress, trying not to wake me as he whispered his goodnight. Two soft kisses on my forehead and the gentle creak of my door shutting behind them. Bliss. Warmth. Safety.

I haven't felt that in years. That warmth. That half-drunk bliss. I haven't felt that safe in years.

Monday night I left work and drove through the fattest of raindrops listening to a song a friend of Kate's wrote about a story I had told. I was too lost in that song and I missed my exit. I was three miles past it. I got off the expressway with the intention of getting right back on toward home when my gas light came on. I pulled into the nearest station, ran in, and came back out to find the only man, besides my father, who had ever made me feel that warm-half-drunk-blissful-safety sitting in the car parked next to mine.

I was surprised to see him at this station. It was much too far from where reason would place him. But only a part of me was surprised - another part thought it made a lot of sense. And his casualness about it all was both upsetting and comforting at the same time. He asked about my father. He liked my earrings. He remarked that he was sickened by the smell of grilled meat from Bennigan's down the street. He would see me later.

Ryan was the only man who rubbed my earlobe as I fell asleep on his lap. Who brought me orange pop and a giant chocolate bar whenever I didn't feel well. The only one who knew how to climb into bed in the middle of the night without frightening me. The only one who took care of me without me asking or even hinting for it. The only one I ever really wanted to take care of. We had such a beautiful romance in college and after we parted I always thought of him as the "one who got away." We re-met just a couple of years ago. We recently tried and failed to rekindle our romance. The last time I spoke to him was painful. We were both so angry that we just weren't who we used to be - we didn't "have it" anymore - that we took it out on each other and we shouldn't have.

But running into him by such random Chance didn't make me feel like Fate was trying to bring us together again, really. That possibility - that want - is certainly gone. But it did reinforce this overwhelming desire I've felt lately. Wanting to take care of someone the way I used to take care of him. The way he took care of me. But not just anyone. (Someone.)

Lately I've been shutting myself in, baking gingerbread and blueberry muffins. Carefully washing dishes by hand instead of cramming them in the dishwasher as I typically would. Thoughtfully constructing handmade cards and well wishes. Wrapping up silly gifts and sending them off to loved ones in different parts of the country. Buying bottles of red wine and fresh jams and guest towels. Spraying fig around the house, wiping down the counters, lighting candles, putting on coffee and nice music in case someone were to stop in to visit. I would want them to feel most welcome. Lately I have spent most of my free time daydreaming about making someone else feel warm and safe and happy.

I read a blog today written by someone I don't know who proclaimed that she wasn't about to do anything for a man that he could do himself. I laughed a little bit at myself because of this "sweet little housewife without the husband" role I've succombed to lately. Generally, I am fiercely independent. I have my own career, passions, goals, friends. I have my own home and take out my own trash. Mow my own lawn. Single mother. I am a modern woman by all accounts. So months ago I would have agreed with her statement. I would have thought to myself, Self-sufficiency please! I want to be with a man who doesn't want (nor expect) me to do those things. And now - now I say, I want to be with a man who doesn't expect me to do those things, but whom I want to do those things for. Now I couldn't have disagreed more with her declaration.

I do. I want to do things for a man that he could easily do for himself. I want to turn the lamp on for him as he reads. I want to warm up his car on a freezing January morning. Make him coffee and warm apple pie for no reason at all. I want to fold his laundry and tuck it neatly into his dresser. Run hot water and soap over his plate. Sweep crumbs from his breakfast tray. Not for any man - for the right man, of course. And not because I want something in return, but because these little things are like small, flowered Dixie cups of water and the rubbing of earlobes. They make you feel warm and blissful and safe. And it could be just a phase I'm in - like the ones an ex used to label my "baby fever" periods. Or it could be me feeling hopelessly romantic. Maybe that I am feeling unsafe, unwarm, unblissful myself.

But it could be happiness, too. Feeling safe, warm and blissful myself. Wanting to share it. Wanting to make someone feel as if they are being carried to their bed on a cold winter evening wrapped in a spice scented overcoat. Soft hands on their skin. Soft light and whispers in the other room. Fresh water for drinking within arm's reach. Gentle kisses on their forehead. Half-drunk bliss.

Of distant relation.

That feeling of wanting to taking care of someone (Of Night and Light and the Half-Light) - if you know me well, you will know I don’t mean to say that is all I want to do. Certainly I want to continue my mothering of Claire, my career, my painting, my coffee dates with friends. Of course. But can’t I do both? And I certainly don’t mean to say that I want to take care of someone who won’t take care of themself. That’s the whole appeal - doing something for someone who would have done it anyway. But now they don’t have to and isn’t that really just the nicest feeling? When you were on your way home thinking Oh, shit, I’ve got to remember to bring my garbage can back from the road to the house and you find, when you arrive home, that someone has already done it for you. (Thank you again, Erin.)

And that feeling of wanting to take care of someone. Sure, you’ve probably experienced that urge too. Yes. But I find it particularly inspiring and relieving because after I had Claire I really believed that I would never want (nor have the energy) to take care of anyone but her. My patience for adults (men) was cut short. I thought why would I want to wash a grown man’s dishes when I can devote that extra attention to my beautiful daughter instead? I think now, as Claire is growing up too fast, I have struck a nice balance. I am devoting every second of my time to her - and somehow pleasantly making time for others as well. I no longer see other people I love as a distraction from her. And that is a nice feeling.

And I am also grateful for this feeling because it is quite hard to give without strings. To give without potential resentment. And there are no strings to speak of, no resentments that I can foresee. And that is a nice feeling, too.

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I am addicted to a particular album right now. I will not tell you what it is because I want it to be MINE for a little while. (This excludes Erin, of course, because she always lets me in on her fabulous secrets.) There is one song on this album that didn’t do anything for me the first few listens. I didn’t dislike it - it just didn’t stand out because it is such a comfortable, melodic tune. However, the other night I was slowly pouring evaporated milk into my pumpkin mixture as the recipe specifically instructed and I realized this: Throughout the song he sings, “My love...” in the chorus. But during the bridge/chorus, he sings her name there instead - and it sounds almost exactly like “My love.” And I thought that to be incredibly heartbreakingly romantic and clever and just everything. Naturally, that is my favorite song on the album right now.

And speaking of that feeling of wanting to take care of someone - in a different song he sings the lyrics, “She cooks me food...” And I thought that to be an incredibly romantic line as well.

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My mother told Claire early this summer that she had spotted some deer in the cornfield behind their house and that there was a baby deer in this group...herd...flock...whatever. So Claire immediately became obsessed with seeing this baby deer. And each time she visited my parents she insisted that they go leave corn, blankets and a bottle in the field for her baby deer. And even after months without a single baby deer sighting, the obsession continued to grow. She started calling Mary, one of her babydolls at home, her baby deer. And then Juliette, our cat, became her baby deer. And when she returned home from Thanksgiving with her dad, I became her baby deer. ”Oh it’s okay, Baby Deer. Don’t be afwaid. Your momma’s here.” And after learning that I am the baby deer now, my mother, who I suspect is still angry with me for allowing Claire go out of town with her father on Thanksgiving, gave Claire a bowl full of dried corn kernels to feed to her baby deer. And then she sent an enormous baggy full of them home with us “so Claire’s baby deer wouldn’t be hungry.” So, needless to say, I have had about three tons of hard, dry, filthy corn kernels shoved into my mouth over the past few days. Tomorrow I am taking Claire to the Disney store to purchase a Bambi stuffed animal. And I will cut a hole in this poor thing’s mouth if I have to so as to no longer endure the fois grois style feedings my child fancies so well. (And as much as I dislike mouthing dry, hard, dirty corn - I am heartened that Claire has this innate desire to take care of someone too. Claire has the sweetest nature. She is just kind and polite and tender. And if you know her, know that you are so very lucky. But also know that you have contributed to her kindness and sweetness and, in turn, she and I are so very lucky.)

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(Please know that I am not making fun of anyone but myself here. There is nothing funny about this except my inability to put things in perspective when I have floated off to LaLa Land. And it’s not funny even, but pathetic of me really.)

Kate - bless her cold, black heart - is a tough love friend. Yes, even more tough love than I. And she will put up with none of my idealist fantasies or whimsical musings. When I confessed to her years ago that I had begun bumping into strangers just so I could offer a genuine apology because no one seemed to offer an apology anymore when they bumped into you and I wanted to start that human kindness trend up again, she told me that I was completely insane and that someone was going to go balls-out on me one day.

So, I should have known when I recently brought up the subject of a homeless man I had gotten to know. Well not really gotten to know, but became familiar with. Anyway, I was telling her about how I just felt this overwhelming compassion for him and ... (that whole thing about wanting to take care of someone.) She put her hand up, shook her head in disbelief and said, sternly, “You have your crush face right now. What the fuck? You have a crush on a homeless guy now?”

I told her that I did NOT have a crush on a homeless guy. But what if I did? So what? Just because he’s homeless doesn’t mean he’s not human. And he wasn’t like some old man. He was our age and he was attractive and...

“Fucking A, Courtney. You know I have compassion for homeless people too but let’s be frank here and agree that homeless men just aren’t really in the dating pool. Like dinner and a movie with you is on his list of priorities right now?! Fucking crush on a homeless guy. Are you telling me this to make your fucked up crush on Randy Travis seem more acceptable?”

And yes, he certainly has other concerns and I was too far off in LaLa Land. But, then, I remembered a professor I had in undergrad who had told us that he had been homeless for almost ten years before he managed to get back on his feet. And during the time he was homeless he met his wife - who was not homeless! So, maybe dinner and a movie would be...

(And, no, I don’t like Randy Travis’ music but he just seems so sweet. Like he would hold my face with both hands when he kissed me. And he’s tall.)

To the left of the Round Room is the Hyacinth Room.

Everything happens again. I want these words burned into my skin.
I like phrases and lyrics like this. Excerpts that seem simple and easy when ripped from their context. If you’re looking for an unmarked place...there’s no such place. And, I can see a bed and make it too. But especially, I miss my beautiful friend.

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I officially cannot sleep. Ever. It is bothersome, but... I was lying awake in bed the other night and turned onto my right side to gaze out the window. The shadow of trees, streetlights and the poles of my awning formed an inkblot painting. It was a giant ant walking through thick blades of grass. I wondered why I saw it so clearly, then realized I hadn’t taken my contacts out.

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Claire talks in her sleep. Mostly jibberish. The other night she clearly said, “Juliette (our cat) cut my hair and put on some purple ribbons so it looked nice and pretty.” That gives me such relief. My daughter, my only real love, is peaceful.

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I am sleepy now, but I know better than to get back into my bed and put out the light. I will lay awake. I will not sleep. I sat down at my computer feeling as if I had to write just one more time before my perspective changes. And I’d like to document the difference.

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Erin and I decided it should be government mandate that everyone keep an active log of their personal “truths” that become public record when you turn sixty years of age. Because, haven’t you just killed yourself - stayed awake at night and ripped your own flesh off - wondering what the answer really was? Did they really love you? Were they using you for something? Were they just scared? What did she really think of that gift? This way, there is hope that you will know the truth one day. Even if you were too chickenshit to ask then. Even if you felt lied to. If you find yourself still wondering these things as you’ve reached your golden years, you can access Jane Jones’ Personal Truth documents. AHA! She did sleep with Professor Smith to get that A! I knew it! Or perhaps, sadly, Yes, you were just a fine distraction.

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I cannot really explain the entire circumstance regarding the next decision Erin, Jen and I made weeks ago. I will write a false explanation that is similiar enough to work. Nasty Person was convinced that Nice Person was seeing someone behind their back. It was decided in a fit of giddy chatter that Nice would HAVE to pull up to Nasty’s house with Boris (an inflatable sex-doll-man) strapped in the passenger seat. When Nasty came to the window of the car, Nice would hit the play button on a tape recorder in plain sight. The tape would play what was clearly Nice’s voice trying to talk like a man. “Oh, hey, you must be Nasty. Nice to meet you, I’m Boris...” and then you would hear the static of the blank tape running. As Nasty and Nice had a bizarre fight about Boris, his tape recorded voice would blurt out random things like, “I like pears,” and “You catch the game last night?” As you can see, the three of us like to confront important issues of trust, suspicion and jealousy in the most childish way possible.

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Every time I take a vacation I try to make it a self-improvement retreat. Last year I learned how to relax in the most common way. I am a city girl. I find skyscrapers, shiny steel and concrete breathtaking and I want to scale the buildings and pound the pavement until my body collapses with exhaustion. When I am on vacation I am typically bouncing on the bed above my sleepy companion at 6am yelling, “Get up! We’ve got five days to cover an entire city! Let’s go, go, go, go, gooooooooo!!!!” And I do (go, go, go, go, goooooooo!!!!!) But last year, that was the year I learned to lounge poolside in a bikini with a Mai Tai, a book not meant for reading, and a towel over my face. It was delightful.

So I’ve just returned, this week, from a roadtrip. A vacation, I suppose. There were many reasons for it, but the most important for me was this: Courtney, you’ve got to live in this world.

I realized that for years I have been teetering on the edge of Henry Dargerdom. And for years I have suffered terrible disappointment because of my own great expectations. A chronic daydreamer, I am. A handsome man glances at me in the grocery store and by the time I’ve reached the frozen foods section I have already imagined our courtship, our engagement, our lovely wedding and Claire holding her new baby brother. By checkout we have grown old together and are sipping Mint Julips on our front porch watching the grandkids roll around on our ivy covered lawn. And fuck if I’m not almost crying, seriously, when I’m actually pulling out of the parking lot without him - my husband.

So, yes, get away. Have no expectations. Take everything at face value. No assumptions. No “intuition.” No reading too much into it. Do not expect. Do not imagine. Just don’t think about anything you can’t see, hear or touch. And I feel changed. I do. Because there was no letdown. No disappointment. Everything was as it should have been.

And life posed its first test just days after I arrived home. I met a man who took me on one of the best dates of my entire life. No kidding. And before he arrived I thought, don’t even think about what he’s going to wear. Don’t even think about anything until it’s right there in front of you. And even when he immediately asked to see my work (honestly no man has ever asked that before and I’ve always thought it to be fucking unbelievable) I passed the test. I actually passed. And, you know, this world can be really nice when you’re actually in it.

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And speaking of Henry Darger and of words I want burned into my skin and of how want and expectation can ruin you: He wrote of his stubborness (and want and expectation), I will not even stand for a snowless winter.

It may take twenty years for her to see that I did fight. The best I could. Painfully silent.

I was so young. My sister's hands were fumbling around my lap, searching for the seatbelt. Not even two miles down the road - it seemed like we were in the backseat for hours. Wondering why my mother was angry with us. The three of us, small children, stood on his lawn staring at each other. His enormous dog. White with mis-shapen grey patches. I didn't know what sort of dog he was then. I didn't even know there were different sorts. Even now, I don't think I want to know. It would be easy - but I like not knowing, still. Our mothers were crying. Embracing over cardboard boxes. We didn't know what we had done to make them so sad. He had a blue baseball cap on. I never saw him again.

The ride home was quick. My mother ushered us into the house and didn't speak to us the rest of the day. She served us lunch with swollen eyes. She snapped at my father. She had lost a good friend to distance. It is grievous to say that, tonight, I know exactly.

We did nothing. The hurt of great loss (for my mother - for me) disguises itself as anger. Coldness.

And, now, I just want to be left alone.

Loss reminds you of itself. The many forms it has come to you in in the past. Reminds you that you will see it again. And over again. Until you become it.

Something seems wrong. Vitamins are making me ill. Sleep is making me tired. Ginger turns my stomach. The five o'clock sun is so fucking intrusive. I heard someone declare their love of autumn today and I didn't care. My writing has changed. I don't even mind if you understand anymore. Someone has snipped the wrong wire.

Loss. What have I already lost? The sensation of tiny elbows jabbing my womb. Six pounds of grace against my chest. Coos. The elation of first words, steps and giggles. Diapers. There's no need for them anymore. A big girl. She was just my baby - just yesterday.

And what more is there? What did I lose that morning, just days ago, when she sat on my hip and I allowed myself to be belittled - right in front of her? To be made small - so much less than she needs me to be. Will that be her telling memory of my character? Will she wonder, as she grows, why I didn't defend myself? Why I didn't fight? What did I lose that morning? But rather, what did she? And if it's nothing lost for me, but instead that someone else, it is still excruciating. To know that she has lost - already. I can play and sing and give her clean sheets. But I cannot protect her. And so I know why my mother didn't speak to us that day.



I just want to be alone. To enter Pollock's quiet nest. To smell it's lavender. To close my eyes and imagine the soft fuzz on her arms changing to feathers. At dawn Sunday morning. On a rooftop. She will flash through the hazy sky and circle our home. Claire will wait each week by her bedroom window for just a glimpse of this white bird. The one who sent her a soft, red heart. And when she sees she will return to her bed. And it will be their secret.

Fear the overpass.

While it might seem odd, pedstrian overpasses have much to do with my earlier blog regarding my wonderful Wednesday. I can't explain why, because it's just a gut feeling - abstract and bizarre. But, trust me as I tell you another story.
Monday morning I was driving into work, and just as I got downtown I looked up. The sky was a comforting periwinkle/grey, the sun almost looked like the moon through the haze and I saw an image that has burned itself deep into my subconcious. A pedestrian overpass. Through the chicken wire I saw a sillouette of a man hunched over a wheelchair, pushing his friend slowly through the crisp morning. It was a beautifully haunting image.

Tuesday Bjorn and I were having a really nice conversation over lunch and he told me that he had painted a series for a show with an overpass, truckstop related theme. We talked about what sort of meaning those images have. His meaning seemed so succinct. I was inspired.

I began thinking about my own ideas of pedestrian overpasses and was disappointed in myself because my reaction was fear. I've been fearful at times that someone would drop something off of it as I drove under, or that I would witness someone hurling themselves to the ground, and sometimes, if I'm stuck under one in traffic, I have a fear that it might collapse on top of me. Anxiety and fear.

So, yesterday as I drove to Ann Arbor, cars on 94 came to a screaming halt - I had to slam on the brakes! My heart raced for at least a minute or two afterward, but Claire didn't seem to notice. Her deep, sleep was undisturbed. We sat motionless in traffic with just the low beauty of Pinback to calm me down. Suddenly I heard from the backseat "Walk, walk, walk." I glanced in the rearview mirror, saw those big, chocolate eyes wide open and the tiniest little finger pointing to my right. I smiled at her, happy to play the game, and followed her finger. A man dressed in black walking across a pedestrian overpass. Hmm.

Erin and I talked about them last night. Her feelings were purer - much less affected. She saw them as a metaphor for enlightenment. The chaos of the masses traveling here and there at insane speeds, trying to go to meaningless places for meaningless reasons. And the man and his friend on the overpass - well, they had risen above that and had a destination so important that they would travel there by foot - slowly with focus. And the wheelchair bound friend - an even more intense representation because his handicap made him slower - but surer. I think that's a beautiful way to look at it. But, then, Erin is a beautiful and intuitive woman.

Pedstrian overpasses. Don't be surprised if you see them as my next series. I think they might be the most beautiful inspiration, next to Claire, that I've had in some time.

I miss my beautiful friend

Every so often my dear, beautiful friend, Joshua, pops into town. Oh, he always looks so fetching, always has many compliments, always brings New York-style excitement and always, always, always greets Claire with a kiss on the lips, a toss in the air and a sweet, sweet rendition of Sparklehorse's "Gold Day." What a beautiful man.

But this trip home was on account of a sad occassion so Claire and I made the trip to Ann Arbor prepared to mourn. BUT, instead of allowing us to sit dutifully by his side in solemn silence, he whisked us off to see a clairvoyant. The three of us - the heart-of-gold sinner, the sad and harmless ladybug and the innocent - off to face our futures.

Well, good futures indeed. No fame, no fortune but full, loving lives ahead. Sounds good, uh-huh. Well, wait - she's sensing an alarmingly overwhelming source of hate, jealousy and negativity forcing it's way into my life via a white, boxy machine with bright headlights. (So, those close to me are saying - AHA! Of course!)

But Claire, my magical, floating toddler, is apparently quite gifted in a visual sense. And that was funny because we just recently had her tested for a photographic memory. So, I guess that's that.

So, she told us beautiful things, heartbreaking things, and just down-right ridiculous things. But, she didn't tell us the most useful of things - mainly involving a fabulously funny lunchtime fiasco involving plum sauce, an enthusiastic cherub, a doting mother's white coat and a $45 dry cleaning tab.

Ah, but we had a beautiful night listening to Mia Doi Todd, sipping cheap champagne, decorating the Christmas tree with sugar cookies (which was really dumb because Claire danced around it saying "cracka!" and pulling them down randomly for bites), and keeping Claire up as late as possible for her first Vogue photo shoot.

We slept snug.

The drive to the airport this morning was much too short and much too sad. I miss my beautiful friend.

One who draw heart in January.

At midnight on New Year's Eve, Jen found herself in the middle of a kiss sandwich. Sure, it's pure comedy now, but at the time she just shrugged her shoulders and peered out from between the two of them at me with utter defeat in her eyes, silently asking me - and the forces that be - "Why?"

Ah, it's just a kiss sandwich. It cannot be explained.

This morning I was walking out of the coffee shop, head in the clouds, and found myself on the concrete in one swift motion. Tripped right over the most obvious yellow divider curb. I picked myself up and laughed with slight embarrassment, but felt pretty good about it because no one seemed to see me - oh, except for the guy coming right toward me. The same guy who dumped me for being too much of a "daydreamer." Kiss sandwich.

Met a guy a couple of weeks ago who made me laugh, made me think, quoted Nietzsche, dressed well...whole package. Talked on the phone, emailed some lovely poetry and exchanged ideas on philosophy. When I had my fill of the heavier things and asked him more personal questions like what he enjoyed doing in his free time, what music and movies he was drawn to he emailed me a very formal advisement to see the attachment for answers to my curiosities. It was an autobiographical statement for his graduate admission ap. Kiss sandwich.

Had an open package of homemade breads for my deceased friend's mother on the passenger seat of my car that I planned to send off that day. Ran into the drugstore to buy KY Jelly and condoms for a naughty pack for my recently engaged girlfriend. Threw the bag into the open box as to not clutter my already cluttered car. Made a mental note to take out the bag before mailing. Later that night went to gather all of the things for the naughty pack. Kiss sandwich.

So, to all the dumpers of daydreamers - here is a little something I have learned in my almost thirty years of living an unorganized life. No one wants to read about how you paid your bills on time or got there twenty minutes early. There is no humor in balancing your checkbook each night or taking the smart route home each day. No one will laugh about you folding your socks neatly or avoiding that obvious yellow divider curb. Life is just more delightful when you find yourself stuck in the middle of a kiss sandwich.

So, girls, here are some more kiss sandwiches we've found ourselves in that I would never dare post, but god do they crack me up...

Pumpkin - Kiss sandwich
"I have a cyst..." - Kiss sandwich
"I'll adopt a pet." - Kiss sandwich
Assface - Kiss sandwich
"I've got to check on my fungus." - Kiss sandwich
Sprawling naked like he owns the place - Kiss sandwich
"This could be big." - Kiss sandwich
"Uh oh! Mama poo poo." - Kiss sandwich
"Sandy...Cindy. Jesus!" - Kiss sandwich
Crying over a chocolate birthday cake - BIG F.*%ING KISS SANDWICH

Well I can be sentimental now too.

I've always loved that deep blue in the sky when you can't figure out if it's early morning or late evening. The color that confuses clocks and makes me stop what I'm doing just to walk outside and wonder if it's day or night - and wonder whether there is a difference. It's the blue that colors my strangest dreams.

Fog so thick it feels like it has substance and secrets and it's tempting you into something. Snow and fog and the lightest tapping of rain. And that amazing blue.

It was between evening and morning when we left work last night. So warm, so blue and foggy and thick. Even with the gauche casino lights seeping in, just serene. I rolled my window down, sipped my coffee and lit a cigarette. I pulled out onto Lafayette with an album about driving playing low through the speakers. Without really deciding anything, I was driving too - in the opposite direction of home.

Driving meant possibilities but the familiarity of my kitchen, my bed, my toothbrush just meant safety and comfort. I drove because I had another good day, I felt good and I wanted to make it last. I drove because I haven't gotten in my car late at night without crying, or stalking or wondering whether life would be better for her if I just took my hands off the wheel in a long time.

I thought about sitting on a barstool in Detroit Sunday night when a Protest Song took me by surprise, eyes closed, to a porch in Ann Arbor on a muggy summer night. A time, years ago, when I was lonely and sad and wantful. "For those who fight sleep." I thought about how funny it is when you think you're the only one who hears the music right. How I HAVE held you closer than you could imagine...flying from my hands. I thought about how things can be, simultaneously, so true and so melodramatic. How beautiful it is when the pain's not part of the memory anymore. Like childbirth. God, I know it hurt like hell, but how bad was it again? And you hope you've learned to either be well prepared for it next time, or get the epidural because you're certainly not going to give up on the end result because you might hurt for it.

I drove to a neighborhood near the lake and parked on the side of the road. Stepped out into a mud puddle. Brick tudors and iron gates. Nicely trimmed hedges and that amazing blue glow from televisions in darkened bedrooms. Snug under their covers watching Conan, worried about packing lunches. Dinner with the in-laws. Keeping score. Resentful about money. I wanted to invite them to walk with me down to the lake under a better blue, but I really just wanted to be alone.

I thought about my miracle in her big-girl bed with her fierce protector just feet away from her. How her smile has gotten so bright. How stunning she is in unimaginable ways. What a gift of purpose I've received. I kicked some rocks, noticed how dirty my boots were getting, but kept walking and sipping and smoking and smiling just because.

I thought about how lazy it is to assume. How I don't want people in my life to assume. I want them to know. I want to know. I thought about turning 30 and the sense of justification it gives me. Like I am qualified now, somehow, to have opinions and beliefs. I've earned the right to wander through rich people's neighborhoods in the middle of the night. To ask for what I want. To experience a birth of confidence - real confidence based on ugly love and heartbreak and dry spells and drama and failure. I have the right to be serious about silliness but about grievances too.

I thought about my cats meowing for food at home. How they've been with me for seven years. Seen too many men come but always go. Have walked across the floors of four different homes to their water dish. Scratched up a dozen different party dresses. Watched curiously as I sobbed, face down on the floor. Pricked up their ears in horror as I fell face down in the toilet, drunk out of my mind. Snuggled me as I read quietly. Ran from me as I laughed hysterically and danced around in a fit of giddiness. Their gentleness with Claire. Their annoyance with her. The way they snuggle at the foot of my bed together or sit in the window and chatter at birds.

I thought about how easily I fall for someone and how quickly I backtrack once I've gotten their attention. How many times I've convinced Erin and Jen I was "super in love" in the past year. How many times I was just looking for a distraction. How I'm probably just looking for one now. I thought about sitting at The Raft, nervous and insecure. Thought about driving to New York in the middle of the night in silence and how in love I was. I thought about how peculiar it is that we allow some animals to run wild through our neighborhoods but if we see other animals, we put flyers up for them. How weird mushrooms are. How funny it is that we need alcohol to enhance ourselves. Thought about my past and tried to imagine my future. Thought about how I'm actually genuinely relieved to not have a Valentine this year. Thought I might actually like to keep it that way for a while.

I couldn't even see the water because of the fog. I could feel it tingling on my skin. I sat down in the mud, yawned and sipped cold coffee just feeling the water and knowing it was there. I sat for a long time just because I had another good day and I felt good.

I am bored. It is fitting that you pay.

A few months ago Jen, Erin and I verbally explored, in great detail, the idea of dating sponsors. Perhaps if single people had someone to guide them, much like an AA sponsor, through the humiliating and painful experience of "dating" the number of restraining orders issued in this country would decrease dramatically. My dating sponsor would be incredibly bored 363 days out of the year.
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I have fond childhood memories of Red Lobster. Hush puppies, rice pilaf, popcorn shrimp and my lovely paternal grandmother. It was "very expensive" and, therefore, a big treat. I hadn't been there in over 8 years. Believe me, I wanted to go back - shamelessly order the Admiral's Feast and a refreshing Lobsterita. But my ex hated seafood and said RL was ghetto. We never went.

I secretly wanted to go all of the time. "Where do you want to eat tonight?" RED LOBSTER!!!! "Uh, umm...Pizza Kitchen, J. Alexanders, Sweet Lorraine's, Margarita's, pizza in? Wherever...it's cool." NO. NO. NO!! RED LOBSTER!!!!!

Jen and Erin took me last week because they have the seafood lover in them as well. I ate several cheddar biscuits, cole slaw, a substantial portion of seafood fondue and an entire platter of deep-fried seafood with french fries. Less than one hour later we found ourselves, bloated and greasy, on Erin's couch drinking coffee, eating Bill Knapps' chocolate cake and watching The Witches of Eastwick. I have not been hungry once since that night.
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I was sitting outside having a cigarette today, staring off into space again. My contact popped out of my eye, did a semi-flip and, amazingly, popped back in. After such a terrifying split second (it's my last pair of disposables!) I reached for comfort in haste. I ended up blowing smoke out just as I put my cup to my lips. I inhaled the smoke, spit coffee all over myself and the shock of it popped my contact out again.
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Do I ever want to be the kind of woman who thinks she's super rad for drinking whiskey rather than wine, has a perpetually vulgar mouth, makes unfortunate choices regarding musical selection, can't get that dang spelling thing right, readily shows off her breasts, and makes fun of other women for being, well, sophisticated?
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Erin was watching some documentary on soldiers in Iraq. She said their captain told them, just before embarking on a mission, "Be polite, be professional, be ready to kill." That is my new dating mantra.

Gun jumpers.

My mother, sister and I are all educated women. We all hold graduate degrees. We are extremely intelligent, dumb women.

Years ago, my sister spent a few weeks trying to figure out why the light in her stove would come on when the door was open, but turn off when she closed it. She wanted to see her food cooking! She sat on several occasions with her nose up to the door, wondering how to get the light to come on. It finally dawned on her that there was, in fact, no window in the door.

Months ago my mother made a cheesecake. My father had cut himself a piece - no one else had had any yet. She was doting about how he had cut the perfect piece - not too small, not too big. She wanted everyone to have a piece precisely that size, but she just couldn't figure out how to cut them. She dragged him into the kitchen to show us how big to cut it. He looked at her, shook his head in disbelief and said, "Cut it the size of the hole."

A few days ago I was disappointed to find that my cute little ceramic salt shaker was empty. I needed to refill it. Oh, but how? There was no screw top? Am I supposed to submerge the thing in a bucket of salt and press the granules into the tiny little holes? Fill a syringe and shoot the salt in? Could the little artsy ceramic salt & pepper shakers my mother bought me in a fancy art gallery really be one-time-use shakers? Well, fuck it. I threw it in the trash. It hit a glass jar and shattered. The little plastic removable cap from the BOTTOM bounced around a couple of times and settled on the top. As it bounced, it sang to me "You stupid idiot. La la la la."

Poor Claire. Her father is truly a brilliant man, yet there is just no escaping the Wilcox women dumb gene.
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My medium is oil. Claire can not be around the paints, varnishes, flow enhancers, turpentines. I fear she may sprout a third ear or grow glass hair. Since her birth, I set up studio in my basement. To accommodate color and light issues, I am forced to keep the lights off, with one single flood light directly behind me. This makes for a terrifying scene. It took me months to become comfortable with this arrangement. I am a scaredy-cat. Eventually, creepy noises became comforting. Moving shadows became inspiration. And the thick yellowish spider who travels from corner to corner spinning webs has become my friend, Rose.

Well, certainly I am thankful I have conquered my silly basement fears, but now I am worried that being a basement dweller is affecting me in undesirable ways.

Last night I was lying in bed, my eyes shut tight. No colors! Typically, rich colors swirling around my head is a lovely sight to see as I drift off to sleep. But, no colors tonight. Just pure, deep black. I panicked. Am I blind? Am I dying? Is it the Nyquil? Have I lost all creative inclination? No colors! "Quick, think of a face, a bird..." Suddenly, Rose appeared. I smiled, my eyes still shut. "Oh, Rose. How nice to see you." I think I dreamt about her too.
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Jen inadvertently invented half-chaps last week. It is a fucking hilarious story. I really wish I could tell it to you and still remain close friends with her.
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Claire's hands look like mine and her legs, too. The rest of her is an incredibly authentic and stunning mix of her immediate family. She is my child. Mine. But, also, no one's. Herself. Sweetness. Just pure. It hurts to think about her. Her voice is so small. Like a squeak you're not certain you really heard. When she says "peeease" and "hanku" and "coose me" I want to put her back in my womb to keep her safe.

It is the most violent love I have ever felt. Violent because I would, in all sincerity, rip the flesh off of someone's bones and squeeze their organs to mush with my bare hands if they ever tried to hurt her. If you cannot understand why that sort of love is the most pure and the most beautiful, please do not have children.
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Liz thinks an internal soundtrack would be advantageous for all of humankind. I agree wholeheartedly. She also pointed out that it would be necessary to adapt your soundtrack when on vacation in order to properly experience the whole of the culture.

Liz is flying off to Paris tomorrow. Please, Liz, do not bring pictures or gifts back. Bring us back a playlist of your internal soundtrack.

My instinct is to make the effort. To fight for it. I feel alone in that today.

As I child, I dreamed of flying often. In the dream, I would stand on my bed then zoom down two flights of stairs to the sunken family room, up and out the window and above the nearby subdivision. I loved that feeling, but it never lasted for more than a few seconds.

Shortly after my grandmother passed away, I dreamed of being chased by a dark figure in the woods. I was afraid of the figure because she wanted to hug me, not hurt me, and I knew that I didn't want to go to where she was. I was eight years old.

One entire year of undergrad, I dreamed in cartoons. The people in my life, strangers, trees, frogs - all cartoon illustrations. The themes remained normal, but the execution - brilliant.

Years ago I dreamed of pulling up to an ex's house with him. His friend had parked a large moving truck out front - he was moving into the house. He looked mortified as he approached us. He told us he had hit someone with his other truck. We watched through the windshield of our car as he started taking silver platters out of the back of the moving truck. The platters had body parts on them. It was an elderly black man and I believed he had been homeless. It was understood that the judge had sentenced him to take his victim, in this morbid way, to his home.

The first week I was in my new house, almost two years ago, I dreamed of a dark womb. I saw two yellowish jellyfish figures - amoeba like. There was an echoed voice - it was the older of the fetuses telling the younger, weaker one why he should die. Telling him that he was taking too much of the small resource they shared and because he was the weaker, he should give up and die. I tend to cry each time I think of that dream because I know precisely why I had it and it has absolutely nothing to do with real babies or even pregnancy. I cry, also, because I feel so much sympathy for the weaker, make-believe fetus. (Being pushed around by people who feel entitled to more than you - who don't value kindness and consideration as strength is hard to deal with on a daily basis. They resent you for being "weak" and they want you gone because they don't know how to deal with you. You are not out for yourself the way they are - self-centered and egotistical. It is a character flaw in them, yes, but it can make someone feel incredibly inconsequential and small and worthless.)

I have had an overly-satisfying dream life most of my years. So, it is no wonder that I have been severely frustrated for the past few months in not remembering my dreams. And the ones I do remember have been so lame - me eating a bowl of cereal after I had just eaten a bowl of cereal before bed. Just disappointed night after night.

And then...last night.

I was in a car driving uphill, clockwise in a parking garage- there was a pretty, glowing white sunlight coming from the top of the garage. There were stark white geese, ducks and pigeons everywhere - no other cars in sight. My ex-husband was driving - going a little too fast. I realized that we were going to hit at least one of a group of three birds we were approaching. As we passed over them, I heard a light thud.

It was understood that we had killed the pigeon. I half-heartedly yelled at him to slow down, I felt reservation about this. He became angry quickly (not in a violent way - just agitated) and said something like,"Here we go again..."

Suddenly I feel wonderful, my body submerged in a tube of crystal blue water. It was some sort of water slide that encompassed an enormous Somerset-like mall. It wrapped around like one of those lazy river floats at waterparks - minus the intertube. The mall was open and airy - faux six-story trees and sparrows flying near the glass ceiling. The light was incredible - silvery white blue.

I feel like there were blue-collar or hillybilly types up above me - and perhaps a Sears store. It felt incredible to be in that water. Soon, I came upon a sloping corner and picked up speed - exhilarating! Now, an impossibly overgrown goldfish - larger than a football with vivid orange and gold scales and transparent fins like thin chiffon - is in my path. I feel it hit me hard. I am not hurt, but know that I've killed the goldfish. Below me to my right, I see a large banquet balcony filled with people in formal attire. I feel like there is a fundraiser going on or an ad agency banquet. I feel embarrassed - like I shouldn't be in the fountain, but I know that there are other people in the fountain too. I feel like I don't want to be part of the fountain people - they are ill behaved or something.

There is a middle-aged man in a hospital bed at the bottom of the slide surrounded by bright white screen walls. He is not deathly ill - just recovering from a surgery of some kind. Surgery was the result of something he had done to himself - like too much alcohol or drug use. He is sort of embarrassed, but ready to make a fresh start - hopeful and grateful. He has blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and a brown plaid cotton shirt. I don't actually see him - I just "see" him. He is understood.

Now I am in a rectangular apartment - room layout is a perfect grid. I think it is mine and I am having a party. It is austere, futuristic with a silvery blue florescent glow. I am leaning against the sink in normal attire. I enter a narrow back room. It is packed with people I recognize. They are people from work, but at the same time, they are girls from high school that I didn't get along with well. There is a DJ at the end of the room, I think. My clothes have changed and now I am in a light blue chiffon dress (think Blanche-style) and I am making my skirt shimmy like the can can with my hands. I am squealing, "I'm turning! I'm turning!" It is understood that I am reenacting a skit (that doesn't really exist) from Saturday Night Live by the woman who does the "I love it, I love it, I love it!" skit. My friends find it amusing. My eyes are closed now, and I keep twirling toward the back of the narrow room saying it over and over. The further I get away from my close friends and into casual acquaintances, the more uncomfortable I feel. Even though my eyes are closed, I can feel people thinking I'm obnoxious. I am embarrassed. I don't want to keep twirling, but I don't want to stop and open my eyes to see their annoyed faces either.

Now the room has almost emptied and turned into a bedroom for two children. The dream has changed to a movie that I am watching in person - no longer a participant. Same futuristic look and glowing silvery blue light. People are dancing. The children are in their beds sleeping. The room clears out and a woman I believe to be their aunt collapses in an exhilarated state onto the older boy's bed. She extends her arm to touch his in a loving way. The boys stir a bit. They belong to the man in the hospital bed. They are upset. They wish she would be more comforting instead of dancing happily. They want things back to normal. They want their dad home. I think their grandma might have been in the bathroom. I think to myself, "Oh, she can fall asleep here because it's her house" which contradicts my feeling that she was the aunt that came to stay with them until their father is home.

Suddenly there is a voice over. It is Dustin Hoffman. His tone is both warm and exclusive. He says, "As cuddlers, you should now know who the design firm is." I think I see a sleek, red sofa and a distinct black V logo rise in front of me. Dramatic pause, then in an "aren't we clever" way, "R. (or maybe H) Baroman."

I was confused and embarrassed. I didn't understand the answer to the riddle - or that there even was a riddle to solve. How did this relate to my movie? I didn't get it - but according to Dustin's smugness, I should have. Everyone else probably did and they were probably very amused.



I awoke very calmly, but very unsettled. I wrote it all down at three in the morning. I hadn't had a dream like this in months. I felt creepy in my own house for the first time - a little scared. Was Dustin Hoffman the voice of God speaking the answers to life's unanswerable questions in code to the believers? And because I wasn't a believer, I missed out? Do I tend to sum things up with superficiality? Why Dustin Hoffman? That bird scene was beautiful before tragic - and the goldfish too.

Last night was the first night in a long time I didn't read philosophy before bed. I read a delightful, inspiring, hilarious and warm book Erin gave to me instead.

Max, another designer, told me this morning - unaware of my dream - that he had hit a pigeon on his way to work this morning. I felt weird.

Liz, Jen and I all laughed about the Dustin Hoffman voice over while having a cigarette.

Someone brought me a lot of disappointment today. That dream seems very relevant now.

On long car rides, messy closets and unbearable heft of the careless.

Even now, I am still hearing beeps and blips and quiet voices. The rolling of wheels on sterile linoleum. The swoosh of scrubs down the hallways. Even now, when these things aren't even near. Like a snuffed candle flame when you close your eyes tight.

My father's gentle, faraway smile was still there as I brushed Claire's hair this morning. Laced her new shoes.

His smile was different while he was in that room. For six days he smiled at me in such a soft way - looking right through me, into my memory. I'm certain he was seeing me, my sister, as little girls - our long, messy hair in curlers, Strawberry Shortcake nightgowns on, purple Kool-Aid around our mouths. He was still young then, without steel wires pulling his ribcage back together. Before a machine ran his heart for too long. He was our protector. He wasn't seeing me as I am now, he was seeing me as a skinny three year old singing and dancing and giggling wildly through the house. I liked that better.

I spent last week sheltered from the real world which, in a strange way, was better. Standing over my father. Holding his hand as he lay unconscious - blue and purple and cut and puffy and lost and sick - almost felt better than driving to work and waiting in lines. Because it was important and it mattered. Nothing else. Being there with him - my Claire, my sweet mother, my family and friends who love us. Nobody else. It was terribly painful and just heartbreakingly dear. Now that he is home safe - only now that he is home safe - I can say this.

And I noticed as I made my zombie-like trips to the lobby for coffee and to the cafeteria for food I wouldn't eat anyway that all of the other zombies here were the kindest people I had ever seen. Patients in physical pain, families in emotional pain, staff under extreme duress day after day - literally taking people's lives into their hands - they were so good. They bought us coffee and asked how my father was feeling - how we were doing. We returned the favor - were so happy to do the same for them. They smiled. Strangers. They rested their hands on our arms and gave us that tender look - we cried as much for this unexpected kindness as we did for our father.

But now I am back. Back to men in SUVs honking at us a fraction of a second after the light turns green, complaining about the meaningless stack of work on their desks. Women frantically pulling t-shirts over their children's heads just to get out of the house on time - offering no reply when the girl at the barista wishes them a nice day. Back to the world where everything is going just smoothly enough that there's no need for pleasantries or thoughtfulness. No need. Back to the world I've been so disappointed in, in this way, for quite a few months now.

I've noticed it so much in this past year. People (strangers and acquaintances and sometimes friends) just being careless. Not saying thank you. Not replying to a thoughtful email. Not calling when they say they will. Not calling. Talking about themselves from the time they sit down until the time they leave to talk about themselves to someone else. Not asking how you are. Not remembering to ask the things that you asked them each time you bumped into them. Just apathy and ego and taking strange pictures of themselves for empty reassurance.

I wonder if I acknowledge people's kindness. I think I do. I hope so. I think, by way of genetics or planetary alignment, that I have a gentle demeanor and a tender heart. But I am not bubbly - not even especially cheerful. Going out of my way to do kind things is something I have to work to do. I don't do it as much as I should, but I try. Each day I try. I like to try. And now that I am happy - really just full and happy - it becomes so much more natural for me. I find myself doing it more and more and then some more - even when it is met with no response.

My friends, who are full and happy as well, they acknowledge kindness. They give it each day too. Even before something goes wrong, before they have to do it, they do it. Even before last week when so many of them called to check on me. Offered to take Claire for the day, get up before the sun to deliver coffee and magazines, put off work and packing just to call to make sure. Drove from a courthouse in Cleveland just to sit with me. They do it more than me. I think it may come more naturally to them. I think it is because they are happy too. Their contentedness allows them to welcome kindness and they give it generously.

It's almost become a strange experiment for me now. Doing kind things for people (strangers particularly) who seem to need it - passively tell you they want it. And when you do it - do what they say they want - you realize that they had specifics in mind. They didn't just want kindness - they wanted it from a certain person at a certain moment in a certain place. Not from an unexpected stranger. And it's like they refuse to acknowledge any concern or care unless it is delivered to them precisely the way they want it or think they need it. I've seen it so often. I saw it today.

I wonder, so often, why that is. It's odd. The two extremes. The startling contrast. The grieving families in the hospitals see it and give it - and the elated as well. The people in between seem just oblivious to it - ignore it or even refuse it. Is it because monotony hinders empathy? Renders them unwilling? Because inconsistency in their lives encourages egotism? The inability to predict what tomorrow will be like forces them to shun the unfamiliar - the good unfamilar- today? Are they just lazy? Are they incapable of understanding how they actually affect others - even strangers?

When did it become okay to not reply to a thoughtful email? When did it become okay to not make the phone call you promised? When did the concrete become the most acceptable place for your eyes while you walk down a busy sidewalk? When did we leave our porches to sit in our living rooms with the blinds drawn midday? When did it become commonplace to roll your eyes after the stranger who stopped to chat with you about the book you have in your hand walks away? When did kindness become a nuisance - intrusive? When did we start closing ourselves off into these tiny little circles not to be penetrated by cheerful outsiders? When did we start taking kind words for granted? When did we stop offering them? When did it become so easy to dominate conversations? Why is it so hard to listen for once? To just say thank you? To want to ask how someone is? To genuinely care? When did "too busy" become an excuse?

Ryan, will you please hit the red button?

I want you to know this was hand written. At my kitchen table. The smell of a match still lingered when I began. It smelled like the long, pastel matches my mother used to keep on the mantle - before she bought a pre-lit Christmas tree and arranged white pillar candles in the hearth in place of fire logs. Some matches can smell entirely different from other matches. When it faded, my kitchen smelled of white pepper candles. Smell is important to a story, but often left out unless it is raining. The smell of rain... - so boring. Rain smells like worms anyway. I like that odor, but it's not rain you're smelling - it's worms and earth.

And I am not handwriting this out of necessity. My computer is in working order in the other room, most likely feeling rejected. It's just that handwriting is far better than typing. And not because it is most organic, or takes more care. Just because it frees up a hand. A hand that can be used for smoking, or pressing your warm coffee mug to your cheek. A hand that can shoo the needy little calico off your lap - or scratch her ear if you're a kinder person than that.

There have been too many things that have kept me from sleep in my life. Painting canvases, sewing dresses, gluing things, depression, anxiety, love, sex, heartbreak, heartbroken friends, feuding neighbors, mewing cats, dripping faucets, creaking floorboards, tornado warnings, scary movies, soul confessions...and, of course, Claire. But now I find myself up writing. Lists, essays, theories, blogs. Writing letters. Writing my name. Writing by hand. (I will not write fiction. I will not write poetry. I have never really enjoyed either. There are very few exceptions.) Writing until far too late. Until it is nearly time for me to put coffee on and sit on my porch and begin my day.

More than losing sleep, writing poses another problem for me. Like everything else - this will end badly. I will obsess over my writing and soon come to resent it. Because the more I write, the less enjoyable it becomes. Now it is study and soon it will become work. Like a relationship: the more you grow to love someone and know about them, the more you realize you are not equipped to care for them in the way they deserve - to sufficiently support their weight. So you try to equip yourself even when they're not asking you to. You do. And nobody's expecting you to, but you feel like you must. And you can't. I can't just enjoy the enjoyable. It becomes too serious to be fun. If I've once loved it, eventually I will run it into the ground.

And there is the problem of the ego. A writer should acknowledge certain things - understand. Know not to attempt to convince you they are telling you a new story. Every story has been told by many people at many times. Every idea once articulated. A good writer will know that they are creating new details and nothing more. Like paintings. Like songs. Like dreams. You think your dream is so new and authentic, but it isn't. It has been dreamed by countless generations. You've just changed the details - the perspective - while you sleep. If your ego won't accept this (and of course it won't) I will lend you all of my dream interpretation dictionaries.

A writer must assume. Assume that you are just like me. And that, for most of us, is hard to do - to admit. You have to assume that everyone has asked the moon for help. Stalked someone on myspace. Mulled over the frightening possibility of spontaneously combusting. There is nothing more annoying than the friend who declares that it is "just like them" to stop and smell a flower as they pass by. That's just like everyone. It's almost insulting (pretentious, really) to write as if you are the only one who appreciates the crickets chirping or lightning bugs. To assume you are the only one to take care in subtleties. You just have to assume.

My mother once explained the problem of duality to me like this: We are all a pot of boiling water. Some of us are bubbling and some of us are still but we are all just the same pot of water. (And I later came to realize that she certainly didn't come up with this metaphor herself - and that this metaphor just complicates the problem of duality really.) But duality. That's the problem of writing. How to know when to explain, how to know when to assume.

Just the same pot of water.

I like this - and hate it. I have this ongoing internal struggle to be different - to be the same. Which do I like better? Can I like them equally? I'm not really the same, but I am exactly. I love that I have synesthesia (I see printed numbers in color) but I'm comforted that I am not the only one with it because it is weird. I often find myself driving, listening to a mix CD and thinking that I must be the only person in the universe listening to that song at that moment. Immediately I realize that is impossible and feel relief - inclusion. I like being the only one on the top of the Royal Oak parking garage, sitting, thinking, sipping, smoking, looking out over the city. But I like that I know other people who have gone there for the same reason. I love that I am the only one in the world who is Claire's mother - but thank God I'm not the only mother.

I have a problem accepting that someone else also believes the lyrics to Metal Heart to be written for her. I hate that someone else feels nostalgia for her father when she smells sawdust. That other painters go through burnt umber and yellow ochre as fast as I do. I don't like that everyone's grandmother smelled like mine. I hate that sometimes all the Firewood candles are out of stock - that fig cologne is flying off the shelves. These are my things. Things that make me different - and the exact same.

The problem for a writer - when to end. How to end it. Tidy things up and make it feel purposeful. Of course, I never know how to end things. I can't even be the first to hang up.

God bless orange moons, composition books, home espresso machines and feathers worn in our hair

There are things I am not. Plenty of things. Practical. Outwardly romantic. Rooted in reason - in logic. Regretful. Connected. Nostalgic. I am not.

I am longing. Anticipatory. Always looking forward to something. Looking forward to hearing Claire's sleepy feet walk the hallway in the morning. Forward to an email, a phone call, an event. Dally. A birthday party. Christmas. April and then May. Then autumn. Always daydreaming it. Building it up. Living it in my head for weeks and weeks. And just as it has begun, I have moved on to the next. For me, anticipation is often better than the occurrence. Longing.

One of my favorite things: To drive at night through cozy neighborhoods with coffee, warm music and a soft ache in my heart. To peek into the amber light of living rooms. To catch a glimpse of a maple bookcase or cherry dining table. A brick fireplace and a well-framed painting. Candles lit. A quilt thrown over a chair.

Daydreams of homes have varied throughout my life. Sometimes, still. I have dreamed of industrial lofts with concrete floors and steel beams and a cold detachment that is reflective of my worst quality. I have dreamed of tiny New York apartments with puce rugs and thirteen coats of dirty lead paint. Messy kitchens. Sparkling bathrooms. Bedrooms just large enough for two. I have dreamed of farmhouses outside the city with covered front porches and falling down barns that double as recording studio/painter's room. It is always raining in that one. And I am always wearing a brushed cotton housedress, sipping coffee out of an orangey-brown mug with two hands. I have dreamed of an Arts and Crafts home with a den and a husband who drinks brandy there while I read in front of the fireplace. I have a cranberry, polar fleece blanket around me. I am, ultimately, unhappy in that house and eventually I leave it.

I have loved all of my homes - with the unfortunate exception of two. And I love my home now. It feels tender. It invites friends in for coffee at all hours. I have made great effort in the past two years to make it so. It is Claire and it is me. Colorful and bright in the morning, subdued and serene at naptime and when night comes it is soft, sleepy orange moonlight. But something always gives me that itch - to go somewhere unfamiliar and conquer - make it home. When I have, when it is - go again. But I cannot (go again). At least not now. And so I drive down streets lined with old trees and recyclng bins at the curb.

There is a home at Sixth and (a street I will leave unnamed). This is my house now. I drive past often, as if checking just to make sure it's still there. A brick tudor with ivy covering almost every inch. A wreath on the front door made of eucalyptus. And though I have never been inside, I know every inch of it. I feel too comfortable there. It is my house.

I know how it feels to brew coffee as the sun rises in the kitchen. Pull blueberry muffins from the oven. I can see Claire's small hand grasp the banister as she steps carefully down the staircase for juice and cereal. The way the sunlight colors her hair strawberry when she sits at the table rubbing sleep from her eyes. My chocolate chenile robe. How the wood feels dangerously slick under my slippers.

It smells of almond. There are crisp, white sheets on the guest bed. A cushioned window bench where Olive and Juliette lay together, drifting in and out of sleep all day. A pantry stocked with spices and cocoa.

I can see the fuzzy colors of fat bulbs on the Christmas tree. Smell the pine mingling with old newspaper. There's nothing new about this house. Everything has settled comfortably. I keep a better house here. My hand towels are always clean. Claire's toys are never tossed in a closet. My clothes are always taken to the dry cleaners at this house - never subjected to the gentle cycle with a quick prayer for their safe voyage. When rays of sun beam into the living room there is considerably less dust sparkling in the air.

My herbs grow fresher in this house. Squash is easier to halve. The candy jar is always full and there is always vanilla bean ice cream to top warm pie. I always have postage stamps here. The dishwasher is quieter. Batteries don't get so low so fast. Bulbs don't flicker and pop when they go out here - they just fade quietly. I am happy to change them in this house. I smile as I do it.

Teeth are whiter. Friends are happier. Music is more moving. Good movies are longer. Beautiful novels don't end. Oil paint dries faster. There is a place for everything. For greeting cards, fabric markers, newspaper clippings, old tax information. There is a better rug for soaking up puddles off snow boots in the front corridor. A place to hang my keys. A coat rack. There are pretty charms for wine glasses. A butter dish.

Fluffier pillows, extra down comforters folded neatly in closets. The doorbell rings more often. The telephone, less. The grass - a spectacular shade of green.

This house is my house as long as I drive past. As long as I sip coffee and turn down the radio as I get nearer. As long as I check on it.