Negligence

It's the thirty first of October. Nuf said.

The Zone

It's the thirtieth. September kind of just happened--like the colors on the mountain. We looked up and there they were. It's autumn. Forgive our negligance...we traded writing time yesterday for a few minutes spent with bread pudding and cider. We don't really have any time now either--just enough to nod to September as it passes. Miss you Prudence! We didn't forget eggs benedict on your special day--even if it was just a hazy memory between us at six AM. For the rest of our readers--a nod to you as well. We haven't forgotten our supporters...we're just really in the zone right now. ;-)

Stretch

Remember when stretching was the first act of the day—even before the opening of eyes? The day held off, waiting for approbation from the gentle, lazy unfolding—extending—of bones, muscle, and sinew to their furthest point. It would start in the core—a body’s center. Outward, outward, ripples triggering the morning’s call to each cell; a shock of oxygen yawns energy to each particle. Stretched and limber, the exercises of day strengthened, a comfortable burn signaling growth.

Headline: stretching is killed by alarm clock sometime early Friday morning. The particular culprit responsible is not being charged; society instead ruling on the side efficiency, speed, and the shortest distance from point A to B. Stretching is a luxury. Condolences are not offered to the family—coffee and morning paper, afternoon cat nap, sporadic trips to the park—beware, you’re next.

We’re sore. This is not natural. It should start slow—walking, jogging before running. Always stretching. Instead, our zealous pursuit into the fray, the melee of pre-class traffic, unfinished assignments, stairs, reminds us only to forget. Our mind seizes, protesting the onslaught. Each step gets harder, each motion testament of the disrepair we allow ourselves. We can do better. We should do better. The journey from A to B tastes better with cookies and milk, smells better with freshly mown grass, looks better with a hint of autumn. What’s the excuse?

Pithy considers alternate methods of exercise, ways to accomplish both the hot chocolate and the algebra. Perhaps it should involve an invention of some sort—we could use newspaper, rubber bands, tape, and glue. It would look cool when we were done. We would test it on you, internets. It would be awesome. So awesome, in fact, that we would patent it and retire to our days of stretching and bare feet. Mission accomplished!

While we purchase supplies and submit our building project to review and revision, we hope that readers maybe find a little moment to stretch their own muscles—maybe with a good book, an old friend over garden salad, wine and cheese, a quiet moment in the sun—maybe even here. If it doesn’t afford you a full yoga stretch, maybe at least a brief minute to catch your breath. We hope so. We won’t look, take your time.

Getting There

Pithy takes pause, amid sporadic bouts of breathless panic where we wonder how we will balance the next fifteen weeks of too many classes, way too much reading and too little sleep--fifteen weeks of staring at a page, at a screen, at a professor--our eyes move but should not be mistaken as signs of life--fifteen weeks of calls, skipped meals, and the imminent pressing in of the snow...we take pause to remind ourselves that it's been a year. Overwhelming is just part of the package, as is the sense of satisfaction for completion and the knowledge that the fifteen weeks will end, and when they do we will be able to say that we made it, that it was worth it, and that we're one step closer to obtaining our super-hero suit and moving on to our mission impossible. We'll get there...watch out.

Show Me

You could plant me like a tree beside a river. You could tangle me in soil and let my roots run wild—and I would blossom like a flower in the desert…But for now just let me cry.

You could raise me like a banner in a battle—put victory like fire behind my shining eyes, and I would drift like falling snow over the embers…But for now just let me lie. Bind up these broken bones; mercy bend and breathe me back to life, but not before you show me how to die.

Set me like a star before the morning, like a song that steals the darkness from a world asleep--and I’ll illuminate the path you’ve laid before..But for now just let me be. Bind up these broken bones; mercy bend and breathe me back to life, but not before you show me how to die. No, not before you show me how to die.

So let me go like a leaf upon the water. Let me brave the wild currents flowing to the sea—and I will disappear into a deeper beauty…But for now just stay with me. God, for now just stay with me.

-Audrey Assad-

The Best Part of Going Back to School: or the intersection of August, money, and depression

August is a big month for Pithy—involving preparations, taking stock, saying goodbye, saying hello—we’re quite confident that we won’t be ready but that it will happen anyways. Much of the first two weeks of the month is largely devoted to denial, that August comes after July—what the hell happened to June? No one—not even Hermione—is so psyched for school that they forget the mournful afternoon spent accomplishing the studied motions of nothing. We live the summer days down to the last weekend of the last week, down to the dusk of summer.

Although summer is only goodness, moving forward is not without its excitements, which brings Pithy to the third best part of school (after, of course, the summer and Christmas breaks): back to school shopping. It’s exhilarating—the scrimmage, the noisy crowds, the danger of being trampled to death, the ecstasy of purchase—the truly competitive American spirit of the check out lane when a cashier opens another register. Pithy is tempted to buy things that history tells them they probably won’t use: pencils (they prefer pens or eversharps when they actually have to resort to physically writing something without the computer), lunch boxes, glue sticks—the odds of going into a store for “a loaf of bread” and only coming out with a loaf are about three million to one. The season inspires the imagination—we can write if off as a tax deduction…now where were those jeans? Do they come in extra-medium?

Pithy is learning the difference of college summers and high school summers—that a high school summer was time set apart to earn tuition and as much school shopping money as we wanted to work for—our return to the halls of education could be as glorious or shabby as we wanted it to be. College summer affords no such time, barely having the time to make rent, car, grocery, and gas payments, while trying to prepare for the bill due on the first day of class. Textbooks stack up. Keeping positive, Pithy refuses to let growing up steal the shine from the sacred renewal of backtoschool. However, and however hard we protest, it’s less shiny this year. The budget word reminds us of the mathematical confirmation of our suspicions each month. The experience, we are told, is supposed to educate from all angles—that lessons come from many avenues—most of the important ones having little to do with a classroom. I guess we will see if this lesson is mastered or not when Pithy comes to themselves outside a shopping mall, disoriented, thinking, "what have I done?"

Rain

It gets hot in July, and August is little better (and by little we mean not at all). Just as we begin to surrender to the exhaustion—the mirage of autumn where waits respite—the clouds gather, the air expects—and humidity suffocates us into holding our breath…waiting. It starts slow; a single drop falls to gravity, its weight too much to balance on the insubstantial precipice of sky. Another follows signaling the final surrender of cloud to earth. The heat breaks; we release our pent up breath, echoed by the thunderous sigh of creation.

We’re the plants. We’re the wilted. We’re the dry dust ground to fine powder. We open, slowly at first, scared by the violent torrent—the foreign, almost forgotten miracle of monsoon; but we open, the water distilling on our parched perspectives, restoring our stature, adjusting each step with bare feet and mud puddles.

The world always looks better after a rainstorm. Golden sepia enriches—enhances—a new lens curbing the harsh, direct gaze of the sun into a promise…a promise of color, spectrum, and each piece together. People look better too. Less burnt. Less burdened. Quiet. Conscious of the sacred moment after cleansing.

We would like to take a walk, visiting each plant, each person, knowing they’ve all been touched—that the rain comes for everybody. We would like to call hello to people we don’t know—the rain likes them, maybe we would too. We would like to cup the dew-scent in our shaped palms and store it away for December. But we don’t. We inhale it all now, greedy. And we stay inside with the door open…

Arriving

Jerry sometimes writes things--just for fun. Like an exercise. This is one he worked on this week...maybe you, internets, would like to read and let him know what you think?



Much less notice is drawn to arrivals than departures. Arriving at this house—287th Wally Place—while not common, marked nothing more than another boy counting the days to leaving. The arrival of this particular boy met with the unspoken expectancies of tradition accrued from years beyond the memory of even the oldest occupant. He stood in the entry—small. The vaulted ceiling lent no stature to his scarce four and a half feet, rather only serving to daunt him into an impression of apologetic notice, as if he were somehow sorry for his very presence and would be more comfortable elsewhere, anywhere else. Blond hair under the dingy twilight and greasy glow of the gas lamps, lacking the sun of home, adopted a sandy tarnish, and the nervous perspiration on his forehead matted his hair down in his eyes, making it easy for him to shift his gaze to the floor and pretend he was not standing before the severely stern man threatening above him, or the all too eager woman behind him. He clutched his bag tight in hand.


“What’s your name then?” asked the man.


“It’s Simon—” interrupted the woman before the boy could speak. “He’s a shy thing, but you won’t have any trouble with him. I can promise you that. Never a cross word or a complaint—you wouldn’t even know he just lost both his parents. He’s adjusting very well. I’m sure he’ll fit right in with the rest of the boys here, and you won’t have any trouble with him, any trouble at all,” she rattled on, her speech accelerating as she progressed as if to lend her credence.


“Yes, thank you Ms. Price. You’ve made it quite clear he won’t be any trouble—I did read your letter after all, it was most informative on this point,” said the man. “But if I am expected to take in the boy, I would like to speak with him myself if you don’t mind.”


“Yes of course, begging your pardon Mr. Bander.” Her face flushed with embarrassment, assuming a red characteristic of too much heat, perhaps even fever, at extreme odds with her already red hair. “I meant no disrespect, I only just want to make sure you are will take him off my—I mean, take him in. I can’t be expected to provide for him. I only knew his parents at a—” again she rattled on, but was cut short by Mr. Bander.


“Please Ms. Price. Don’t get ahead of yourself; no one is suggesting you keep the boy.” He appraised her pretentious dress verging on the edge of modesty with obvious distaste. “You are clearly not a suitable option.” With finality, he directed his attention to Simon. “How old are you boy?”


“Eleven,” Simon managed, without raising his eyes from the floor.


“Have you ever been to school?”


“No.”


“Well, if you stay here you will be expected to apply yourself to scholastic studies. We don’t tolerate any measure of lethargy. Do you understand?”


“Yes.”


“Yes sir,” whispered in Ms. Price.


“Yes sir,” said Simon.


“Very well.” Turning back to Ms. Price, Mr. Bander continued, “That will be all Ms. Price, our institution will assume responsibility for the boy now. You may rest assured that we will do all in our power to curb the influence of his parents, and your profession, and equip him with knowledge of respectable society.” At this Ms. Price bristled, but was far to invested to let her temper best her judgment.


“Well I thank you Mr. Bander. If that will be all you need, I’ll be leaving then.” She turned on her heel, and with a flourished swing of the door was gone. The echo rang and the air was silent.

Mr. Bander released a pent up sigh, as if to more completely expel the unwanted presence of Ms Price. Without a word, he turned to ascend the nearby stairs. Simon stood awkward, waiting.


“Well come on then boy,” said Mr. Bander, removing a pocket watch from his vest and holding it to the light. “It’s getting late. I’ll show you to your bed. Have you had dinner?”


“I’m not hungry,” said Simon.


“Why? What’s the matter then?”


“I want to go home,” said Simon.


“Home? You’ve only just arrived. You don’t have a home.”

"Thank you for being the best part...*cough*"

Pithy has found the crux with customer relation jobs and why they can be so frustrating. Agents are trained to consider themselves customer “care” representatives. However, customers are told to call in to customer “service” if they have any issues. This presents a quandary. Care-givers or servants? And is there a difference? We have all been told by our mom—or at least Pithy has…repeatedly: “Clean up your room, I’m not your maid.” The first time we heard this revelatory statement, we were appropriately shocked—didn’t she care?—weren’t we her responsibility?—what did she hope to accomplish by making us clean up our own mess? But now time has worn us down, and we catch ourselves joining the ranks of those who refuse to be maids. Service?—fine, but let’s get some things straight…

DON’T BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU. Jerry had a moment at work today where he felt so sorry for a customer whose phone had been lost by the post office that he personally spoke with every supervisor in the chain of screaming until he finally got the site leader to override the system and send the customer a new phone free of charge. When the order was processed and the only charge remaining the $17 state taxes, Jerry almost used his own credit card when the customer could not afford to pay, and would have if he had not found a way to bend the system. Jerry would not have done this had the customer been the Neanderthal that Jerry later spoke with whose vocabulary was so lacking in adjectives that they all seemed to be related in some way to a certain four letter word. Reason suggests that when we want someone to give us something, or to provide a service beyond the agreed expectations, we should probably treat them nice. There stands a very good chance that if you yell obscenities and hardly allow the rep to speak, their giveashit meter will drop—significantly—as the task of “caring” for you at this point transcends the realm of reason…not even your mom puts up with that.

YOU ARE DISPENSIBLE. Sales agents are the ones that tell you whatever you want to hear—their paycheck depends on it. Once hooked under contract, a care rep is your best friend—they are the only people paid to care about you. Care reps tell you what you need to know to survive—sorry, it might hurt that you went over your price plan and have overages and don’t want to go to a higher plan…but you live in the real world, and when you buy something it usually requires paying for it. If you mess it up—you clean it up. Threatening to cancel your account (and get charged a $320 ETF—probably not the next best action for someone sick of spending money) is not going to change the fact that paying only for 450 minutes, but using 830 minutes, is stealing. The company gave you what they said they would—what’s your problem? Go ahead, cancel—it’s a multi-billion dollar corporation—I’m sure you’re Dallas Texas ego will be sorely missed.

IT’S NOT ME IT’S YOU—but I’m so nice, I’m going to let you think it’s me cuz that’s what I’m paid to do. However, I didn’t use your phone, I didn’t call Spain, I’m not being charged $348—I didn’t drop my iPhone in the toilet and am now wondering why it’s having a hard time getting service—I didn’t put my sim card in a smart phone and then lie about it so I wouldn’t be charged for a data feature…even though I used so much data that the package would be like a birthday present—I didn’t mistake the dollar sign next to the 0.00 as a five and call in to rage about a fifty dollar charge on my bill…I wore my glasses today. However, as this call will be monitored for quality purposes, I will apologize for the misunderstanding, tell you not to worry about the way you treated me when you realized what a total jerk you look like, and ask you if there is anything else I can help with.

After the Latino and Asian accents so distorted they hardly resemble any variation of English, the obscenities, the tears, the passive-aggressive, the just aggressive, the so old that the highlight of their day is calling 611, the confused, the stupid, the belligerent, and the oh so few pleasant—Pithy truly does feel like a parent required to love whatever comes their way (except in our case love is a huge exaggeration—not like with our own mother who lives to love us). As a parent, we strive to equip those we care for with skills that will serve them throughout their lives, and hope they will go on to be decent, productive humans. The ethicality of tantrums as a manipulation tactic was questionable even at the age of two—Mr. Customer, it’s time to grow up and solve your problems like a big kid. It involves a smile, mutual understanding, a willingness to reach a compromise, and a parting handshake. Look—all grown up.

Pithy debated publishing this—it does lack a certain amount of our characteristic panache; these words have a sense of unbridled angst more fitting a rant on craigslist than this venue. But, we did promise the days of our lives as it were—hoping you find the profundity. If you don’t, we will help: Jesus is watching, even calls to customer care—don’t be a jerk.

Isn't It Ironic?

“‘Why does everyone run toward a blood curdling scream?” mumbled the Senior Wrangler. “It is contrary to all sense.’”

Pithy was recently criticized for being too abstract in our writing—that we only allude to a story—that cohesion, in turn, alludes us. The irony of this situation is that Pithy would expound this event in thorough detail—painstakingly portraying the setting, characters, plot and development, even describing the vein of reluctantly melting popsicle trickling down our hand—the faintly sticky stain reminiscent of finished chores and the easily remembered moments of what it was to be young and in love with the intangible perfection of lazy summer—we would describe this all, but the involved party would prefer we left them out of it. It’s ok Mom, we will save that kind of detail for the next posting—this post is all about irony, and alas, we must keep it vague—there are those who would like nothing more than our ruin—“with great awesomeness…” So for those who can’t handle the beauty, the puzzle-fitting perfection of ironic karma, we keep it general; you know who you are—this one is for you.

Irony involves many things—the juxtaposition of unusual or seemingly contradictory opposites which, upon reexamination, display a truth not entirely without humor, often painful to a point, and always good enough to spread on toast. Humor is good and can be generated from any source, sarcasm is better—finding its roots in the instigator, coupling humor with insult, and evoking a sense of well-earned bested; irony is supreme—it surpasses the simplicity of humor and one-ups sarcasm in that the joke is made and received by the same person—there is no comeback, nobody wants to burn themselves twice. It is often said that it takes a sense of humor to make it through life relatively adjusted; this is assuredly true. However, irony guards more hearts, even than humor, for it takes a sense of irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself. Let’s face it, there are only two reader reactions at the end of O. Henry’s story: we can look at the wife—a bald, poor, gift-buying failure—and the husband—replete with a watch-less chain and a useless comb—and laugh, acknowledging that their failures through sacrifice only deepen their love (so is it really a failure?), OR we can suggest they get divorced—the universe obviously doesn’t want them to be together. We choose the former.

Pithy’s most favorite irony episodes generally start, or at least involve, the attitude or statement, “Look what I can do.” “Look, I’m Goliath, I’m huge—look what I can do…” “We’re the British army, we’re the best army in the whole world—look what we can do…” “We built this huge boat, it’s titanic—look what it can do…” “I’ve got my whole life ahead of me; I’ll be single forever; it’ll happen to all my friends first—look what I can do…” This last one provides us with much opportunity for enjoyment and we feel it will soon join the other historically marked monuments to irony.

Our critics would caution us to be careful—that we are playing with fire. How do we dare print this? We appreciate irony. Mark our courage—look what we can do.

It's Time

It can’t be the end of the world. It could be time for all sorts of things—tubs of ice cream, letting laundry stack up, listening to Staind’s “Everything Changes” on loop repeat (in fact, it was time for this last item—Pithy sang along—loudly), but the end of the world? This too shall pass. Pithy knows this to be true, except we would like to complete this sage wisdom with the epithet: “…like a kidney stone.”

“If we could stay here together, if we could conquer the world, if we could say that forever was more than just a word.” Problem is, forever does have meaning beyond its etymological parts—meaning that doesn’t always agree with what we pictured. Time marches on, and pretty soon you realize it’s marching right across your face. Generally we like change—when it happens years ago and we can be comfortable with the easy motion of the safe and secured. Change in real time? That depends…are you giving us a present?

Old proverbs can be irritatingly accurate, and the one about change being the only constant is no exception. It seems that every time we find the meaning of life, they change it--until we finally learn life is change—growth is optional. Pithy realizes that things are only recycled to make way for new life and potential. No one wants to be the fallen, rotting tree blocking the path, but you can’t help missing the solidarity of roots and establishment. Still, it’s stupid to sit stuck, just because you can’t see the table, or the book, or the home that is waiting on the tree. Change is ok, as long as it's in the right direction.

It’s time. It’s time for all sorts of things—a new month, a new year for Jerry ( :-O), new smiles, new steps to our updating futures—all sorts of things, but not the end of the world. So, Pithy takes the song off repeat and tries out the next track on the playlist…

That's Right

Internets,

This is a picture of our imaginary summer vacation. It's amazing here! White sand, clear water...sure beats being stuck answering phones, cleaning hotels, and our studied expressions of professional back pain. Thank you for all your well wishes. We expect a safe return to reality sometime later this week.

Be Awesome...

Pithy

if ever

if ever there was a time for laughter let it be now--this perfect hour--this infinite instant; let us laugh at the world around us whichever undying part remains--not verging on the lip of annihilation, poised for the eternal forgetting.

if ever there was a time to sing let it be now--these open windows, the throats from which music does not distinguish its notes--the wind, the echo in a canyon--these sunset waves splurging on the sand; let us tilt our ears leeward to catch it all and shake loose from our own knotty reserves some nameless tune that no one will remember but which will cling like a fine dust to everything it catches.

if ever there was a time to love let it be now--feel the easy embrace of the chair we grunt into each day--notice how the bedsheets part for our sibilant sleep, the night generous with its ticking hours, moon just so--discover how whole the body can be wrapping itself around an ice cream cone; the farewell we offer a friend going to Africa, the parting wish we leave at the airport's sliding glass doors--notice how unfraudulent the heart is whispering us closer to a baby boy who offers us his batting eyelashes; how easy we can cleave from the hard, lost day a fractured second of joy, eyes enraptured with the sight of a small breeze lifting plastic bags into an aerial dance just for us.

and if ever there was a time to pause and stand, broken, before God, weep at the sight of all that is beautiful and finite, our hands having cast their breadcrumbs, the birds scattering toward home, time impossible in its never enoughness, if ever there was a time to pause and to ache in the falling--light signaling our last, glorious view of the world, let it be now.

Maya Stein--official interpreter of the soul.

iPithy

Pithy remembers a simpler time—a time when the world was defined through catchy, acronymic phrases. “Big I little i what begins with I? Ichabod is itchy and so am I.” The youngster of today, a product of the metro-techno generation, when met with this same question concerning I’s usefulness, would beg to differ with Dr. Seuss, or at least expand his vocabulary. What doesn’t begin with i? iPod, iPhone, iTouch, iTunes, iMobile, iMac…i…i…i.

An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but Mr. Job’s apple seems so superpowerful—so beyond the scope of earthly normalcy—as to banish the doctor permanently to the protoplasmal primordial atomic globule from which they sprang. Yep, there’s an app for that.

Pithy is secure—with ourselves, with our awesomeness status, with our gentle readers—we don't need a shiny, new phone to be cool and sophisticated. We don't mind (very much) our LG bricks with giraffe-neck antennae. But Pithy, as our internets know, is also very smart—smart enough to recognize that we live in an iWorld where iMage is everything—an image narcissistically mesmerizing, reflected in the “pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny.” Resistance is futile--we will all be assimilated.

So, we sport our apple products with pride--even now absentmindedly caressing the sleek surface of our iTouch, marveling at the futuristic beauty of touch screen technology and dreams realized—momentarily banishing the fervent hope to always avoid iCustomercare. That app still seems to be in the works.

Thank you for choosing....

New cell phone number: $10 fee, plus time and effort

Paycheck: $580

Effort to collect money for group lunch: more than it’s worth

Orchestrating said lunch, collecting the money (a mere $73 total) from the agents, lying to the manager, telling them that you can’t give the money to them because you have already ordered the sandwiches from a different store than was originally discussed, changing your cell phone number to avoid attendance sharks when you decide to skip town with the $73, lose your job, and forfeit your last paycheck (the pay period for which had just ended—checks sometime next week)—PRICELESS.

Just a reminder that little stories that bring some small measure of joy can be found all around us.

Silence Is Golden

Sometimes silence is just yellow.

Pithy has experienced the golden kind—at the end of a long, hot day with lots of people that expect smiles and handshakes—when head meets pillow in that sweet moment of renewal. The soft expulsion of pleasure is inevitable, and we smile just a little as the quiet lulls us to our dreams. Sometimes, it’s the easy silence shared by two friends—no expectations, no disappointments—just a companionable peace that reaffirms and secures. The muffled silence of first snow, when the world stills, caught in reverence for the simple miracles of life. Or when a room holds its breath as a loved one passes—the indecisive moment of silence when hope and longing meet in that final sigh.

Sometimes we find ourselves in the silence, we meet that version of who we want to be—the one that is too scared to face the critics and the pressures. We sit in the empty clarity and ask ourselves what comfort we find in all the noise.

But sometimes—sometimes silence is too empty, a reminder of our loneliness—that the indifferent quiet that held off sleep, mocking our efforts to let go—will be the same indifferent quiet that stares blankly at us when we awake. Sometimes the moments are too silent—just bearable enough for prayer.

Are We There Yet

The moment night groaned to morning in that awful, jarring disconnect devoid of all possible optimism, Pithy knew. Something was not right. Temporarily, we were content to blame the alarm’s negligence in allowing not one, not two, not even four, but six—yes, six!—snoozes (don’t worry, its employment has been terminated—the replacement will not cower so easily). However, upon leaving the house for work at an alarming speed, Pithy knew it was more than sleeping late. Indeed, all around were signs of notquiteright which slipped passed notice, but, upon reexamining at a later time, were painfully obvious: the day was counting up its birds and couldn’t get the answer right; Murphy’s daughter stayed out all night without checking in; Karma was cranky for an unmentionable reason—which wasn’t that hard to figure out.

Consequently, Pithy’s day was long—not I------I this long…but I--------------------------------------------------------I this long. We’ve all had those days when lunch felt like we should be clocking out to go home, but it’s not every day that morning “take 5” at seven thirty feels like lunch and nine o’clock’s “take 15” finds you biting back “K guys, cya later—gotta get home, I’m beat!” Today, Pithy was dazed and confused to find that clock-out came a full EIGHT hours after clock-in. Stranger still was the fact that they keenly felt as if the eight hours had actually transpired.

Death by PowerPoint, Microsoft’s “classic view” (note to Microsoft: there is nothing timeless about it—it’s UGLY. Get rid of it.), thermostats governed by a heating/cooling system in OREM (reminder: we’re in Cedar)—all these lend to foot tapping and count downs; when coupled with the human factor—hmmm, not entirely sure that’s 100% accurate—the venting of which would lead to HR inappropriate comments about people and their intelligence, and which Pithy will reserve to tell in person (but we will clue in that they involve words like retard and moron)—this day has been dubbed: Day Too Long. So let it be written. So let it be done….please!

Some Other Time

It’s summer. Well, at least school is out—and by school we refer to those institutions which recognize that scholastics should end as early in May as possible. Cedar refuses to acknowledge the inevitability of the sun. This week the flowers cowed under yet another layer of suffocating snow; the trees look more equipped for the last stages of autumn, afraid to open their foliage and be the dumb one that didn’t get the memo. We, being all green-aware (and by green we mean money), didn’t turn the heat on yesterday night (and by didn’t we mean forgot). This led to all sorts of unpleasantness with the toilet seat this morning, which in turn led to fasting and prayer for the overdue thawing.

Cold or otherwise—IT. IS. SUMMER. On this we will not negotiate. We have compiled (or at least started) the overly ambitious lists that characterize the golden months: we have one for cleaning, for reading, for eating, for not eating (still working on that one), for sleeping, for avoiding. Strangely, we do not have one for writing—yet, here we sit, postponing all our vital projects to address you, Internets. That’s right—feel special. Or don’t—after all, isn’t that what summer’s about? A compiled list of all the lists to be saved for later? There must be something to do in order to feel like we have accomplished the lazy perfection of ignoring responsibility.

Oh, we imagine some of it will get done—we will tackle the laundry eventually, in its cyclic time—like taxes and death. Real tasks, like paper revisions and Spanish practice, belong to August, when we can justify them because, “School starts next week.” For now, we reassure ourselves of summer’s presence, combating the cold with the comfort of some other time.

Space

It's easier to start with breathing

And empty space

I can do that; simple enough
Except for maybe tuberculosis with
Coughing and blood froth.

I don't have time for
this—Only for grades—
analyzing, quantifying
contextualize, mathmatecize
poetry. Grownups love
figures.

Poetry
is not for grownups.
It's for butterflies. Listen closely.
—closer—
To the
ta tum ta tum ta tum ta tum ta tum
of—their—wings.

Taskmastertomorrow gets the job done.
He patrols the aisle and looks
Over my shoulder. My thoughts smear like ink.
My whole life—waiting—for questions
—questions for which I have
prepared answers.
"love" I say "should be said more slowly."

The butterfly counts—
Not months—
But moments,
And has time enough.

Just Because

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

Billy Collins

It's Complicated

Simply put, we overcomplicate. We all do. There seems to be a trendy sort of sophistication in complexity. Pithy likes trendy--clear up until they remembered their preference for the innocuous actual--(is that borderlining it?). The fact that no one understands you doesn't make you an artist. Over-analyzing can often lead to trouble.

This week bends our minds around paradoxes. Empty your mind--only then can you be filled. Education is gaining knowledge of your ignorance. Believe those who are seeking Truth--doubt those who advertise they have it. Mind pilates (that's pill-aht-ees Prudence ;-). While attractive super model minds do sound nice, we catch ourselves occasionally longing for yesterday's jumping jacks and soccer.

Don't get us wrong--we like our new words. Tarradiddle sounds good on a well-oiled tongue, but maybe we could just settle for "pretentious nonsense?" We like that we know the Chinese can't spell--that Toa Te Ching is actually said Dow Day Zzhing. That oughta be handy in saving us from some future embarrassment--some day when we need to look smart. But we find ourselves ready to bargain looking the part for the simple intersection of knowing what to do, how to do it, and the integrity to accomplish it.

After laughing at ourselves--or crying--or laughing so we don't cry--or meeting the concrete wall, we are ready to confess. Tom made peanut-butter pasta. It was weird and pasty and as perfectly awful as it sounds (no Kevin, peanut butter does not make everything taste better). Jerry burned the potatoes. The house smelled funny, and yes--he didn't realize they were burning and he checked the heater in his room first--on all fours, sniffing the floor. Things slip from our mouths and hover in the air long enough for us to realize how dumb they sounded--"I could mean so much more to you..."--and then we laugh and prefer the dumb words to what we actually meant. We stumble and oafishly manage, "That was deliberate." Funny thing is, it kinda was--the Universe's attempt to catch us at our blunders and help us realize that it's how you pick yourself up, not the fact that you tripped, that measures your smarts. It's not complicated. It's deliciously simple, and it satisfies.

A Letter

Dear Writer's Block,

We need to talk. Breaking up is hard to do, and it's always messy--but I can't keep living this lie. I still care about you, but I just don't feel the same way you do--I love you, but I'm not in love with you. Honestly, you're like a sister to me. I'm not ready for this kind of commitment--you want more than I'm prepared to give. We're both so young, I just can't think about forever. I think we would be better off friends.

It's not you it's me. It's how I don't seem to fit you anymore. I think I have potential to expand and try new avenues of creativity, but I feel stifled with you. We should see other people. I need more--I need to write. There are stories and poems and random thoughts that must be articulated. I can never belong to just one--especially one so possessive. I just can't do this anymore.

Please understand and don't feel bad. You have everything to live for--you're young and intelligent, but I have so much baggage.

To clarify any ambiguity in my message: I regret to inform you that, under a plan for the periodic removal of unpleasantness from my life, I must terminate our affair. You have no choice but to comply with the court orders unless you wish to face stalking charges. Should you persist, I will enter the witness protection program.

Love Always,

Writer.

Writing

Something weird happens when you sit down to write--not when you have something to say--but just because it's high time you got your act in gear and put words to page. You hope, as you blindly start, that the words will somehow magically flow--that it will take a dam to staunch the torrential flood of genius bursting forward. This is what you hope--yet, as you find yourself carefully constructing phrases and meticulously pouring over word choice, you realize that word fairies don't exist, and Wordsworth lied about Tinturn Abbey.

You complete your first paragraph--painfully you recognize it doesn't really accomplish anything. While there are words, they don't really say anything, and that's cheating. Panacea constitutional torturous enjoin atelier quotidian gesticulate nebbish onus torpor frangible--see? At this point you realize--time for a thesis, there's gotta be a focus. What?--there was that one guy singing with his headphones in about smoking guns and coming home that reminded you of that one time when the neighbor girls sang Kelly Clarkson with her headphones in and you wished she really would fall to pieces. Or how you wanted to use a specific line--"Could you two continue your petty bickering? I find it most intriguing." You could go deep and despondent and write from the place nobody else seems to get, but you remember you've done that a lot recently and it's starting to get a little old (besides making your mom wonder if you're "Ok"). Crap--you're rambling again.

You've tried your hand at being a pocket philosopher. Readers seemed to think that the wisdom of "don't be stupid" went without saying. A commentary on the lazy technique of the informal second-person used here and how its critical theory psychoanalysis ties of repression and distancing may lead to a deeper understanding of the speaker would probably bore internets. No good--you need the perfect subject...DAMN YOU Jim Gaffigan! I was totally going to say all that stuff about bacon...I mean you--lazy second-person technique you--you were going to say it.

Doubt starts to fester. Maybe you're not a writer. Maybe you should just give up...C'mon, who are you fooling anyways? Even Stephanie Meyers got published, and here you sit--a dwarfed, pathetic, husk of a writer--beaten out by sparkly vampires and prepubescent fantasies...not even worthy of touching a keyboard. Stop it! You tell yourself--it's just the bad demon angel that wears red and holds a fork and sits on your shoulder to get in distracting fights with the good angel talking. You're better than that. It'll come--your inspiration will hit, and there will be the ethereal column of light and the angel choirs and everything....

Caravans! That's it--the perfect thesis. Focused. Unusual. Camels are inherently funny/looking. There's the appeal of the exotic east; plus, hardly anybody knows anything about them so it's your word against theirs. Yes! Caravans...let's see, there's sand, and hot, and turbans....and....um, there's sand, and hot....and....uh....crap. That's a really bad idea isn't it? You don't know shit about caravans. Maybe you should take a break. Like...right now.

Title

We like to think that it's not that our lives are any less interesting. But, let's face it, sometimes you're just BLOCKED.

Resolutions

Too often, the new year is simply a renewal of old habits; we forget that resolutions and good intentions are for more than paving roads. The new year does not mark an end or a beginning. Time has no divisions to mark its passage. Life comes in a continuum, and each year is simply another chance to get it right.

We could choose the weight. We could choose the being a little kinder, the personal improvement of reading more, the measured pace of all those activities we started and never finished--the quiet resolve to finally tackle those goals that seem to always land in tomorrow. These are all tempting. But after the magnitude of new classes, new books, new responsibilities, absent friends, and faraway family--we are sometimes dwarfed in the magnitude of survival--just getting through.

Pithy doesn't want to simply pass 2010. We want to master the lessons, do ALL the reading (even though, let's face it, sometimes life reads like a textbook); we want to originate ripples and inspire others to get it--hoping in the process to get it ourselves.

We resolve to:

Read to a child.
Watch a sunrise.
Laugh at ourselves.
Send a real letter.
Put on clothes straight from the drier.
Incorporate absquatulate into our vocabulary.
Learn to let it bend before it breaks.
Acknowledge that God is in control.

There are times that are cold, and cutting and empty, times when the spring of new beginnings seems like a distant dream. Those rhythms in life are natural events. They weave into one another as day follows night, bringing, not messages of hope or fear, but messages of how things are. We resolve to use this time to cultivate and create, to nurture our world and give birth to new ideas and ventures--to contribute to flourishing and abundance, seeing life in full bloom, energized and expanding.

There are no new beginnings, only new endings.

Closures

The two days before the year slides to its finish hold a complex brew of sentiments. Last night, I was heady with optimism, as a friend and I raised our glasses in a joint wish to seize our visions for the future. Then, this morning, I was barely ready to let a sentence go. How do you close one door and then so soon open another? How do you wrap things up and then prepare to leap again? The mind exhausts itself with such gymnastics. The cocoon of winter is deceptive, solstice nudging us away from sleep. And so the only thing to do is let the body fall and rise, each breath its own small victory, an unbending promise, the truest kind of faith.

Maya Stein