What Do You Want

Fruit and yogurt, mama said.

It wasn’t like fruit and yogurt at home, though.  Yogurt at home was always blue or pink.  This yogurt was white. White food was weird. You couldn’t tell what it was gonna taste like.

It’s really nice. You should try it.

Also the berries on it were GIANT! And shiny. And dark, like almost black. They looked like monsters.

Look at all that yummy fruit, dada said. He was eating pancakes. Maybe pancakes would be better.

I want pancakes!

That’s daddy’s pancake. You said you wanted fruit and yogurt so that’s what we got you.

You don’t even like pancakes, Dada said.

Yeah, that was right. Pancakes at home were white. But these pancakes daddy was eating were dark blue. They looked pretty good.

Try your yogurt, Mama said.

It was almost like the berries were staring back. The shiny spots looked like little eyes. And some tiny, curly fuzz-pieces from the berries were floating on the top of the yogurt.

Mmm-mmm. Nope. No-ope.

Just try a little, Mama said. Then if you don’t like it, Daddy will switch with you.

I don’t like yogurt, Dada said.

Mommy will switch with you, Mama said.

Mommy was eating toast, but it was white toast and it had very yellow butter on it that made the toast look even whiter. And she was eating eggs, which yuck, I do not eat eggs. Dada was eating eggs, too. They were smelly like cleaning the kitchen smell.

NO!!!

Just give him some of your pancake, Mama said.

It’s really small, Dada said. He should learn to eat what he ordered.

Just try the yogurt, Mama said. If you don’t like it, we’ll get you something else.

NOOOOOO!!! No no no no!!! I do not want yogurt! I WANT PANCAKE.

Sorry, mama said, not to me, to someone behind her. Okay, we’ll get you a pancake. That was to me. Okay? Your own pancake. Hang on and we’ll order it. Your own pancake.

My own pancake. Okay. Okay, this was good. This was gonna be okay. Really hungry, but I’ll get my own pancake soon. Really hungry.  Maybe dada would give me some of his pancake until my pancake comes. Ug, hungry.

Dada?

What’s up, dada said.  He reached over the table and grabbed one of the giant black berries with his fingers. Some yogurt dripped off of it back into the bowl, glop. Dada wiped the berry on his napkin and put it in his mouth. It made purple juice on his lips.

That looks yummy.

Mm, dada said. Good berries.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

What’s wrong? mama said. What’s the matter?

Dada was laughing. Why laughing? Yeah, what’s wrong? he said.

What’s wrong? He ate my berry. I only had a few berries and he ATE ONE.

NOW I CAN’T HAVE IT ALL. 

I yelled it, as loud as I could yell, loud enough for the whole restaurant, so everyone would know.

Be Cool

To be cool look up and to the right.

To be cool smile but not with teeth.

To be cool carry a cool book like one about anarchists or entrepreneurs.

To be cool wear headphones.

To be cool roll the bottom of your jeans to show your ankles.

Ankles are cool.
To be cool write in all lowercase don’t use periods.

Periods are not cool.

To be cool smoke always smoke.

To be cool hold the cigarette between second and third finger not first and second.

Definitely do not hold it between finger and thumb.

That is not cool.

To be cool make a cool face like this.

No like this.

Even if you eat a hot pepper or hit your head on the cabinet.

To be cool never wear a bike helmet.

To be cool definitely always drink.

Drink a lot make sure to get drunk.

Throw up.

Not in the bar—in the alley out back.

To be cool fuck the guy your friend was trying to fuck.

To be cool practice raising one eyebrow until you can do it perfect.

To be cool you should take all the drugs.

(Except pot.

Pot is not cool.)

To be cool take all the drugs.

Do it at work to show you don’t give a fuck.

To be cool let your outside dissolve.

To be cool fall apart let your insides pour outside of you.

To be cool your knees should shake and your vision should be blurry.

To be cool drink canned coffee and orange juice in the bathroom.

To be cool make sure to shoot something up.

Shooting something up is extremely cool.

To be cool don’t talk about your girlfriend.

Have a girlfriend but don’t talk about her.

To be cool don’t have a baby.

Babies are not cool.

To be cool be still.

To be cool sit still and don’t move at all.

To be cool stay home.

To be cool stare at one spot on the wall.
To be cool stare at it not hard but with intent.

To be cool stand on one leg
Like a heron gazing to the depths of a cold blue lake.

Perfect Date

Dear me,

I’m not sure that I’m cut out for the online dating thing. Last week I went out with the third guy. He was pretty sweet and nice and everything. It’s just—

Just what? She scanned the coffee shop, looked out the giant window in front.  Couples passed by, holding hands, cloth grocery bags of bakery bread and vegetables under their arms. They were all wearing fancy sweatpants and casual, messy hairstyles.

The guy, whose name was Fred, lived in San Francisco. “Let’s meet in Oakland!” he wrote in his email. “I never go there!”

Okay, fine. Good. The first guy was from San Francisco and he acted like Oakland was Compton, so this was different. She had met with him right here, in her favorite coffee shop on Piedmont Ave. A potential mistake to let him that far into her life—pick someplace you never go was the usual rule—but he never came to Oakland so it wasn’t like she’d start seeing him here all the time.

Maybe this just isn’t the right way to meet people. It feels mean. I have to judge each one and make a quick decision based on superficial factors. I would never do that in normal life. Like, the first guy was just way too nerdy, and the second guy was a food snob. Reject, reject. I feel like such an asshole.

Plus this coffee shop was the perfect place to meet somebody.  Big, relaxed, nice decorations. Lots of people talking, catching up with friends. Not too many people working on laptops, usually just her, writing stories, writing journals, staring past her screen at all the social people. Always lots of internet dates here. She could tell from the awkward hug at the beginning, the inane conversation: “So what is your family like? How are you liking that new iPhone?”

Everything with this guy was good. We had coffee, talked about bands. He’s way into bands. He goes to shows like every weekend.  I should totally go with him (he says)! 

Like that girl in the corner--definite internet date. She was waiting for someone, checking her phone, her legs crossed stiffly, nervous but trying to look relaxed. Her outfit was cute. Not dressy but not casual. Definitely not revealing in any way. 

I asked him about his job. He’s a web designer. That seemed promising. You had to be a little creative or something to be a web designer, right?

“No, I’m not really good at art,” he said. “I got this job right out of my associate’s degree and just moved up. It’s an okay job I guess. It pays pretty well and I don’t hate it.”

After coffee, we went in the comic book store and looked at comics. He had great taste in comics—insisted on buying me one even though I didn’t want him to.

He said, “I always wanted to write comics.”

“You should!” I said.

He shook his head, all sad. “No, I’m not creative.”

Outside, a guy walked by. Short, a little bald, in hipster glasses and a pretty shirt. So many guys on Piedmont Ave like that. A little like Fred. Fred fit in perfectly here.

Is that a totally asshole reason to not want to date somebody? Because he isn’t creative? He’s got good taste and everything, like he’s into good bands and comics and books. Does he have to produce something himself? Am I a horrible person?

She’d already talked it over with her friend Jennifer, the one who had made her sign up for the internet dating in the first place because she was married and wanted to live vicariously.  

“You’re allowed not to like them for any reason,” Jennifer said. “That’s part of what makes it fun!”

It’s not fun. Meeting all these people and rejecting them one by one. It’s awful. When I emailed him to tell him that I had a nice time but I didn’t want to go out with him again, he wrote back two sentences:

“I had a nice time, too. I guess I’ll never understand women.”

It kind of made me feel like shit.

There was that same guy again, outside, looking in through the window. That guy who looked like Fred.  Wait.  That guy was Fred. Holding his hand over his face to see past the glare, searching for someone inside.

Crap. What did he want?

She waved at him as he walked in. Might as well be friendly. If the guy was stalking her, better not to piss him off.

“Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?” In Oakland. You never go to Oakland.

He wrinkled his forehead for a second, scowled. Then smiled, polite. “So I guess you come here a lot,” he said. “I think you told me that.”

“Pretty frequently,” she said. Like as in every day.  Fuck. Time to find a new coffee shop.

He pointed to the table in the corner, where the girl had stopped checking her phone and was looking up at them. “Nice to see you, but I’ve gotta go,” Fred said. “I’m meeting somebody here.”

He sat down with the girl in the corner for a few minutes. Then they left. She could see them through the window, deciding what direction to walk.  Finally they went left, towards he comic book store.

She pulled her phone out, called Jennifer, told her what happened.

“Uncreative guy stole your date spot?” Jennifer laughed and laughed. “That’s perfect!”

That was right.  It was perfect. She clicked "save" on the file for her journal, closed it. Opened up a fresh new document and started to write.

Snooze

She always comes right after lunch. When I’m having what they call a snooze. You having a little snooze, Mollie? the ladies say. 

They wheel me out to the coffee bar area after lunch and put a newspaper on the table. I can’t usually get too into it. It’s too blurry, a bunch of squiggles. There’s a few words. My eyes get heavy, really heavy. My head is heavy. My eyes. Really tired.

Someone tapping on my shoulder. Huh? Eyes open, where are they? Right in front. No, off to the side.  No, I wasn’t sleeping. I was awake! It is bath time?

Oh, it’s her! She leans in, kisses my head. Grandma! It’s good to see you!

It’s good to see you, too.  I can’t say it. I want to say it but it’s not working. I move my lips. Close my eyes.

Grandma!

Open my eyes. There she is! No one visits me. She visits me, not all the time though. How much. Did she come yesterday? No, longer.

But who’s that—she’s with someone else. Him. His name is.  He’s—

Hi Ma.

Ma. He hugs me. That’s nice. It would be nice if someone would hug me like that every day. I try to tell him. I would like.  I would.

He is playing with something on the table. Pressing some little buttons.

She gives me a big smile. It’s like I’m a baby. It’s okay. I like when she smiles. She always smiles.

You would what, she says.

I would—what? I can’t remember. It was something important. I remember that. But not what it was.

She’s doing a little better, she says.

Better but not good, he says. She’s still not talking.

She just talked right now.

When? Today?

Just a second ago. You didn’t hear her?

I’m nodding my head.  Hey, look at me. Yes! I said something.

I guess I missed it, he says. He’s pressing the little buttons.  He’s frowning.

She always starts a sentence, but it’s like she doesn’t know how to finish it, she says.

Yes! That’s right! That’s exactly right. I nod as hard as I can; but it's not much. My head is so heavy and my neck is stiff.

Yeah, I say.  It comes out loud. She looks at me.  He looks at me.

Yeah? says the girl back. She laughs, like I’m a really good baby, a funny baby. You’re listening to us?

My eyes are getting heavy again. I’m cold and I want a blanket. But I’m gonna answer her. I know just how to answer her. I know what the answer is.

“Yes,” I say.

The Crack

“Your favorite memory?”

What was it.

He knew, but he had to make something up.

The real one wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

Seven years old. Tonsillitis. His mother took him to the hospital where they cut out part of his throat with a sharp knife. That felt just like it sounded. But right before, while he lay shivering under blankets, his hair and clothing soaked through, a smell like warm bread—and then, his bedroom had opened up. A crack, something not normal but familiar, like it had always been right there, behind what you could see.  He sat up, thought he might have become naked, felt air on his back. There it was: like a pomegranate, the shiny inside peered out to him, begged him to reach in his fingers, pull it apart. There was a feeling of dripping as he entered, a shivering and spreading. It wasn’t going in; it was inside coming out to him. The inside was colors, but not regular colors. Colors of trumpets and saxophones, colors of music you never wanted to end. Colors that stayed trapped inside of him after the outside went black, tunneled him into sleep.

Someone spoke in his sleep, told him that they would be together again. That this was his destiny. He hoped it was death, that this was where you went. The next level. Beyondness.

But when he opened his eyes, the light was monotone. There was a nurse above him, a spoon, ice cream.

“That’s right,” she said.  “You can have all the ice cream you want.”

It was an even brown, something chocolaty but not chocolate. He swallowed saliva, and the swallowing seared him like a scream.

People sometimes said that nothing was better than sex, or that there was nothing like an acid trip, or that nothing matched the feeling of holding your child for the first time.  He had done all those things, but he’d never seen the other side again.

Probably he’d have to wait until he died. If it didn’t happen then, he was going to be really fucking disappointed.

“When my son was born,” he said.  “The most beautiful day of my life.”

Rabbit Poem for JK

Those are rabbit ears

Sticking straight up, like television antennae

From that pile of meat and intestine on the road

And that is a patch of brown fur

Soft like my sun-warmed cat on a bright morning.

That’s what happens.  One day your body is a miracle

Of function, a machine that turns food into

Ideas, a bundle of engines and pumps and converters connected

By neat rivers of blood carrying oxygen

To cells, which are also machines,

A trillion of them, pumping in symphony,

A masterpiece.

And then another day, it could be any day, just,

Bam, you get smashed

In the street.  One bad day,

Wrong risk taken. The car, the gun, the virus,

The overdose, the heart

That just stops. The perfect thing

Crushed into a mess of sticky unfixableness.

I think someone wrote a poem about this already.

I think someone wrote ten thousand poems

About this. It’s just so

Obvious.  But I can’t help sticking on it.

Blood on fur, organs collapsed, tiny perfect ears.

Do you think someone loved him? Did he have little rabbit

Cousins, who used to hop by his burrow

For some killer carrot cake? Did he use

His little rabbit paw to stamp tiny

Rabbit paintings into the soft mud by the hedge?

Did he ever smack that paw

Against a friend’s face, say, “You need

To get your life together, stop running

In the street, before you get

Yourself killed.”

Not bothering to mention how the other rabbits

Said the same about him, that he scared them

That he had darkness inside him, that he

Sought out drama, danger.  That he was weird.

That the brightness of his anger, the

Fierceness of his pain was easier to set aside

To deal with later, to forget.

When he disappeared, did they say,

“Oh, that’s so sad.  But hardly

Unexpected.”  Were they just a little

Relieved?

I know someone wrote a poem about this already.

I know they wrote a hundred thousand

Poems, but it sticks with me.  No point

Dwelling on it. But I can’t stop

Piecing this stinking garbage pile back

Into a rabbit, gathering the stomach

And intestines and spleen, stringing veins

Like tinsel, puzzling together bits

Of skull and brain.

And last, those ears, sticking

Straight up like antennae, tiny ears striped

Through with tiny veins, tiny blood cells

Carrying the unmeasurable love and suffering of the universe
From ear to brain to heart.

Blank

At a gym where I used to train, the senior students sit on the edge of the boxing ring, passively eying the throngs of regular students jumping rope.  Their gaze pans evenly across the room, never lingering on any one student for more than a second or two.  A regular person might acknowledge someone’s quick footwork as they jumped, might nod approvingly, might wince as a mistimed rope slapped sharply against the tops of the jumper’s bare feet.  But the senior students won’t do any of that.  It is a point of pride for them not to react to anything less than a foot flying towards their head, and even then, only with bored indifference, as though moving out of the way is a bit of a bother.

This is how martial arts people look: the blank face. I’m kind of a connoisseur of it.  I often find myself studying the still expressions of fighters on the side of the ring, training partners and classmates waiting for their friend to fight, teachers in the windows of karate schools, former high-school wrestlers.  They all have some form of it, a slackness of the facial muscles that normally would be showing engagement, interest, reaction.  

The blank face is what allows martial artists to recognize each other in public places.  They are the ones who don’t flinch when the waiter drops a tray of glasses to the floor, who brush past creepy drunk people blocking the sidewalk as though they haven’t quite noticed them, who quietly step out of the way of that guy trying to punch them in the bar, causing him to fly head-first into the wall, who return to their beer as if nothing had happened.

When I earned an English Ph.D., I was taught to have a cool nonchalance towards unfamiliar information.  “Doesn’t Zizek’s analysis of hegemony invalidate your argument?” someone would ask.  The trick was to stay calm, to redirect the question, to say something like, “Well, Zizek’s view of hegemony is useful but hardly an ontology,” to point your accuser to something like Foucault’s analysis of hegemony.  No one must ever know the shameful truth that your knowledge of Zizek was limited to one article about Lacanian psychoanalysis that you read and barely understood during a first-year theory seminar.*

This kind of bullshitting wasn’t an incidental skill one had to pick up to survive; it was an explicit part of our training.  I was told repeatedly by my professors, an insider secret not announced in a lecture but passed from mentor to student during private office visits: “You need to learn to speak on any topic, even if you know very little about it. That’s one of the main skills of an English Ph.D.”  Practicing this skill during oral exams, dissertation defenses, job talks is how students are conditioned to be scholars, unshakeable under the most obscure and unpredictable attacks.

Learning the blank face is something like that. No teacher gives a lesson in it, but they tell you again and again, as you grimace in pain or scowl in frustration: “Don’t react.” It’s partly for the same reason as the literary grandstanding, to avoid showing weakness to one’s opponent.  But mostly, the blank face is not for the purpose of deception. Rather, it’s a technique for staying in the present moment, which we must do when we fight.  A reaction prolongs and memorializes a moment that has already passed.  In a fight, you don’t have time to congratulate or chastise yourself, to gloat or get angry—everything moves too quickly.

Blankness also allows us to focus on a task rather than on the social exchange involved with that task. Normally we spend a lot of energy reacting to those around us, but this performance can actually prevent us from observing and absorbing information, as when we are so focused on our eye contact and firm handshake that we cannot remember the name of the person we’ve just been introduced to.  I used to nod at my teachers even when I didn’t understand the direction, until a teacher told me, “Don’t nod, just do what I say.”

Now I know all about the blank face, but I’m still not always good at it.  I might scowl or smile, depending on my mood, when my teacher tells the class to do something impossible like throw four minutes of roundhouse kicks or do a hundred pushups or lift a forty pound weight over my head.  Sometimes I become angry when I feel a larger sparring partner is using his size against me, and my anger shows.

I could work on not getting angry, at not caring whether I have to do something impossible, but I could also just work on not expressing those emotions on my face.  Just as smiling has been shown to make people feel happier, lack of facial expression can make us more inwardly stoic about our fate. If we can appear equally content to do whatever our instructor tells us, then perhaps we’ll learn to be equally content to do something fun like throw roundhouse kicks or something hard like do pushups or something boring like clean the wrestling mats or something scary like fight that guy over there.  And then, like the stoics, we might be equally content with whatever fate brings to us, sickness or health, companionship or solitude, life and death.

*Regarding the topic of Slavoj Zizek’s thought, Wikipedia warns: “This article may be too technical for most readers to understand.” 

The illustration depicts the blank faces of my three kickboxing teachers at the 2000 San Shou Nationals Tournament.