In Residence

Excerpt #4

     Later that night, during another thunderstorm (have missed those as well), I’m journaling about the day, trying to keep track of this experience (I love the idea of journaling, but am hugely inconsistent and often lapse into worries and complaints instead of cataloguing the important events, realizations, and gifts of the day) and it occurs to me that despite my explanation of what I’d like to accomplish at CA (Creative Alliance) to Carl that afternoon, I have no idea who the person is that’s going to do those things, or how. That’s part of why I’m attracted to it—that great big chunk of unknown that lies ahead—but it’s also a little overwhelming to go on a three year exploration of self. My definition of an artist, of myself as ‘artist,’ is going to be different from the next person’s, from Carl’s, Ed’s, Caroline’s, and each of the other residents. There is no set path, no rules, no guidelines. In order not to be part of the mainstream, 9-5, 2-week vacation world, I’d always classified myself as an artist, but never really looked at what that meant. I simply thought of it as an indication that I led a deeper life—I observed everything and everyone closely, I felt intensely, I suffered the separation between daily living and the timeless pleasure of the creative act and the random way they occurred (e.g. never when you wanted them to). I knew of other dimensions and spaces in the mind and heart and I exposed them as regularly and honestly as I could, and I believed this validated me as real, more than human, somehow a little divine, but in writing this evening, I discover that ‘real’ is just as ambiguous as ‘artist,’ and divinity, of course, belongs to everyone, not just the writer, painter, musician, dancer, etc.

     So what was I really? Now, focusing on the term and the implied life attached (‘artistic life’) to it, I am suddenly lost and empty.

     And then, a second later the flash: that is the artistic life, allowing oneself to be lost and empty. To not impose a direction or try to fill the space on anything that will squeeze out what is trying to enter and reveal itself, what can only come to me and no one else to translate to myself and the rest of the world. To be ready for whatever comes, from wherever it comes, and be the medium through which it’s realized. For me that means—through words.

     Getting out of bed I open my front door and pull off the cap to the blue dry erase pen attached to the board. On the dull gray surface I write: "I dwell in possibility -- Emily Dickinson."

#

     The next morning I find the following on my door:

Chris--

Part of our Saturday conversation--about the possibility of a visual poem--and your choice of Dickinson for your note board, sent me back to a more literal visual 'translation' project that got sidelined a couple of years ago. So--based on an earlier plan of "Split The Lark's" 1^st stanza, I built up this colorscape of the stanza's structure. While it's certainly architectural, Miss Emily might be amused by its Lego-town aspect (?).

Hope you're settling in despite the tricky weather.

Carl Jones

     It's written in gel pen and printed in capital letters. No cursive except for the signature, which has wide, round loops for the ‘a’ and ‘o’. The first name and surname run together, with a long dramatic line after the 's.' I’m wondering why he needed to write his full name. It reminds me of the signatures of cartoonists scrawled in the corner of their pictures. The effect is very exaggerated and spidery. There’s very much an ego there, I think.

     My reaction to the note is twofold: I'm pleased to have the dialogue continue in another form, or rather forms--the note and the drawing—to be challenged to think and see in a new way, but I'm also feeling a little creeped out knowing he was outside my door late last night (I went to bed after one a.m.) reading the quote, then stayed up creating this drawing, writing me a note, and bringing it back to my door at what--three a.m.? It seems oddly intimate and presumptuous. But then, I'm an oddly cautious person about my space.

     The attached drawing is a lot to take in and, though I stare at it, I can't apply it to the poem. Carl has created a system of 3-D blocks and arches to convey the rhythmic structure and patterns of the stanza--the repetitions, the alliteration, as well as Emily’s unique dashes and capitalizations:

                                Split the Lark--and you'll find the Music--

                                Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled--

                                Scantily dealt to the Summer Morning

                                Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.

     The blocks are standing on end in rows, like little towers of varying heights; the top of one has been split so it looks like an extra half of a sandwich on top of a stack of sandwiches. Some blocks are red, some gold, some green. There are two archways--one vertical, colored orange, that bisects the first four rows of blocks; the other is horizontal, colored bright blue, and takes up its own row. The rest of the blocks remain white with black shading on their sides to indicate there's a source of light somewhere creating shadows.

     Below the 3-D drawing is a one-dimensional aerial view with some squares colored black, others just have diagonal lines--some have two, some one, some three. I suppose one can make a case for it somewhat resembling staff paper for music with notes filled in. Other than that, as I said, I can't connect it to the poem. It's not really what I had in mind when I thought of creating visual poems. I was thinking in more traditional symbols, i.e. creating a piece that includes a picture of a bird (nothing so obvious as one actually split open with musical notes pouring out, I assure you), which perhaps seems too elementary, but I've always been rather straightforward about things like this. I'm not trying to confuse anyone or turn them away or make them feel stupid for not 'getting' what I'm trying to say. I've always hated work that doesn't invite the viewer/reader to enter. That's the ego of the artist shutting you down and out, pure and simple, which is (to me) bullshit. It's reasonable to challenge people to think, but art shouldn't be in code. I appreciate his effort, but I get the feeling Carl is one of those artists that does talk in code, and I'm disappointed. I hope my first impression is wrong. That will make him cool and a little sterile (which would be in keeping with his spare paintings, studio, and food), while I'm more intuitive, messy, and emotional. If this is the case, we'll have a hard time understanding each other.

     Carl's note aside, my head is spinning with ideas and projects. Last night I got out of bed at least three times to write down fragments of lines that might end up being a poem. Eventually I’ll have to be more organized about how I spend my time and where I focus, but I’m going to spend the rest of this year staying open and just following the flow. I have a bad habit of imposing or forcing my work into what shapes I'd like it to be, when I'd like it to be, rather just letting it happen when it wants to be.

     All the drawing requires of me to process it exhausts me. It's too early in the morning. It’s a good tired, though; it has a kind of steady, low-grade energy to it that is more enjoyable and easier to manage than the semi-manic phases that can come over me sometimes. You know the ones. Where you can write twenty pages every day for a few days and then wake up a deflated balloon and not write for weeks. Productive, but draining. These phases were probably somewhat self-imposed because I always had to squeeze my writing in after work and on the weekends, usually the weekends. I’m compelled to set a goal of two pages a day, but find it hard to keep that promise to myself and my writing every day, especially after a long day at work, so the weekend often becomes the place where I play catch up. 

     I leave the note for now. I don’t know how to respond to the drawing--I want to acknowledge the effort and try to offer some understanding of it from my point of view--but I don't really have time, because my father, sister, and brother-in-law are meeting me at the U-Haul rental store in an hour.

Excerpt #3

At four we walk down to Carl's door and find it propped open. Some nameless classical music fills the air. I knocked, while Keegan runs right inside.

"Come in," Carl calls so I enter. His space is small, L-shaped, with a loft one-third the size of mine that’s curtained off and used for storage. There are shelves and shelves of books and CDs, and several shelves of small metallic sculptures and rocks of various sizes. On the wall running the length of the studio are tacked up various drawings and sketches, with a large half-painted canvas in the center. In black and a paler version of royal blue a large building resembling a warehouse is beginning to take shape. There’s a drawing table, an old metal desk with a computer and papers stacked on top, a rocking chair with a partially unraveled seat, a futon with a gray cover and light green and gray pillows, two Quaker-style benches, and a kitchen table. In front of the futon are two tray tables set with plates, silverware, and teacups with saucers. Over the couch two paintings: one of a building and half of a street painted in gray and black, layered with thick white globs of falling snow, the other a low building resembling a diner, painted in purple and black, with wide windows in white. At the bottom, in black letters, are the words, Begin here. They give me a bit of a jolt, as the message seems so appropriate for where I am at this time in my life, figuratively and literally. I turned my back on a lot of confusion and floundering, and had truly chosen a direction for myself, which I'd never done. Grad school didn't count; lots of people got MFAs. Choosing an artist residency, committing to work in a community and to personal projects is different. At least it’s very different for me.

“Hello, have a seat anywhere," Carl waves toward the futon and benches. I sit in the center of the futon.

"What kind of tea would you like?"

Out of habit, and because I am a little nervous I say, "Chamomile." It always calms me down. I’m not weirdly nervous, but sometimes, when meeting new people, I become extremely self-conscious about myself—how I look, sound, gesture—as well as the atmosphere in the room—whether it’s peaceful, awkward, or tense—and the emotional tenor of the people around me. I often forget to erect boundaries between myself and others so I absorb whatever they’re giving off. This eventually is exhausting and upsetting. But, as a writer, I simply can’t help but tune into people and situations, observing the smallest details, so I can reconstruct everything later, if I wanted to, for a poem or story.

"Chamomile it is." Carl puts a saucepan of water on to boil and brings over a plate of cheeses I don’t recognize, and another of red grapes, blueberries, strawberries, and sliced apple.

Keegan smells the cheese and begins leaping about, begging. I pick up a chunk and pull off a piece for him.

"His passion." Keegan inhales it. I don't recognize the cheese, and I hope I won’t see it again later if it doesn't agree with him.

"Good man, Keegan. Mine too." Carl fills a small plastic container with water and set it on the floor. Then he sits across from me in the rocker. "Everything going well so far?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm very happy to be here. I've got a lot of work to do and there's something about being in a place specifically for doing your work. No excuses."

"That's true. But don't push if things don't happen right away. It seems like the first year is a year of transition, you know—experimentation, and discovery. The second year is the settling on a project and the beginning of its creation/implementation. The third is the polishing and presenting of that project in a resident’s show. For you it might be a reading."

"I'm not very good at pacing myself like that," I admit. "I'm not very patient. I'll probably rush in, make a mess, then crash for a while. Eventually it will sort itself out. I've been at this long enough to know my patterns."

The water in the saucepan spits audibly and he rises to pour it into two teacups, then brings them over and places one carefully on my table. I want sugar but for some reason feel too stupid to ask for it. With the rather ascetic environment, and the unadorned fruit and cheese repast, sugar seems too profane to add to the mix. I sip my tea, which is colorless without the sweetener. I watch him move a few pieces of cheese and some strawberries onto a smaller plate, then sit. His movements are very refined, almost delicate, but I sense that they are adopted and practiced, not innate. Despite this, I feel very clumsy as I tug at some grapes and choose my cheese. I’m reminded of watching a fellow grad student at Hollins eat a slice of cantaloupe—she cut it into sections, vertically, with a knife, then slid the knife horizontally underneath, and used her fork to spear the cubes. The process was a revelation. I'd been digging awkwardly at mine with a spoon, as always, and felt incredibly graceless and common.

“You came from LA. Was it not going well there?”

I decide not to censor myself. “No. I hated it. I suppose I needed perspective. I needed to get far away from my life here to see where the holes were and what I needed to do to fill them.”

“What’s that?” He reminds me of a therapist I had when I was struggling with the anxiety disorder years ago. She asked very brief questions that forced me to further explain what I was saying, going layer by layer, until an answer was illuminated, by me alone. But this situation is different. I remind myself to be careful and not just open all my doors and windows simply because I’m riding the high of this new life.

“Baltimore has too many scattered, isolated writing groups. They need to be more centralized, or at least connected. We used to have the Baltimore Writers Alliance, but that’s gone under, and I’d like to build a writing community here at Creative Alliance. I’d really like to become more of an artist. I’m not sure what that is, but, much as I love writing, I want to create substantial pieces out of my poems. Pieces with weight and texture that take up physical space as well as mental and emotional space. Maybe work with time.” I realize I’m babbling a little and not getting to any one point. I smile. “It’s all a bit of a jumble.”

“They all sound like good ideas to me.”

That’s nice to hear. He asks me who my favorite writers and poets are, and what I like about their work. I’m very keen on structure and technical elements in writing, in craft, which he is too and as we talk he keeps getting out of the rocking chair to search for books on his shelves. I notice that the sun has begun to go down and is bathing the room in a lovely peach-colored light – a rosy orange. I’ve never used the word ‘bathe’ to describe light before in my life, as it’s a little romantic and cliché, but in this moment it’s appropriate. I’m happy Keegan has his window, but I would love to be on this side of the building and have that late afternoon light that would surely turn into the dreamy powdery blue of early evening. In the two days I’ve been here, I’ve determined that my space receives a pale, cool sunlight and daylight that I’d like to hide from, rather than invite in. I’m a night person, so the easy, mellow light in Carl’s studio is more my style.

One of us mentions Poe; we both love his work.

“I'm ashamed to say I've never been to his house, or the catacombs. Maybe this year for the Halloween events they have there. It’s his mind that fascinates me,” I say. “I picture it full of dim, narrow passageways, small rooms with ornate mirrors reflecting candlelight, bare windows where the sun is shaded gray even on the brightest day, and the moon glares in at night. A place that thrills you even as it makes you feel sad, damp, and shivery.” I sip my tea, trying to like it, then pop some overripe blueberries into my mouth and take another sip. Better.

He brightens, sitting forward in his chair. “That’s so interesting; I think spatially as well. As you can see from all these paintings of buildings in here, I have an architectural background. I’ll sometimes create a model of a structure I’m designing out of cardboard and glue. I’m making one right now for the gallery space at MICA—the Maryland Institute College of Art—to help determine where my students’ pieces will hang in their show at the end of the summer. Look.”

From his desk he lifts a piece of cardboard with a simple network of walls and doorways open to the air. “Sometimes it helps the students to see the space and how the flow of images and colors will work.”

I’m fascinated by this little model. I’ve always loved anything in miniature. Whenever I go to the Baltimore Museum of Art I spend a great deal of time in—what I call—the Dollhouse Hallway, with chest-high glassed in rooms elaborately decorated with tiny furniture, flowers, dishes, candles, books—whatever you can imagine—and lit according to certain times of day.

“It would be fun to make one of these of my own mind,” I say. “It would be a crazy maze, though. Sort of like the Winchester House in California, where doors open to brick walls and stairs lead to a window, and hallways double back on themselves.”

“You should do it. You must have a lot of boxes to use. Do you have an Exacto knife?”

“Yes.” I feel a little rush of excitement in my chest at the thought of creating this building. It seems a very symbolic thing to do to start off my new artistic adventure. And it involves playing around and making a mess, two things I’m not very good at because of my perfectionistic tendencies. I’m often too structured and organized and don’t allow enough chaos or mistakes into my work, or my life. “I think I’ll try it.”

He smiles and I notice his teeth are grayish-yellow and crooked. There's something in a person’s eyes and smile that tells a great deal about them. Twice now, Carl’s appearance has made me wary. I don’t want to seem superficial or mean (if you’d met some of my ex-boyfriends you’d know for certain that I’m not hung up on looks), but I’ve always been very sensitive to people’s faces; I believe they are somewhat of an outward indication of the personality within. I either trust them or I don’t. Something tells me to pull back; it all suddenly feels a little too familiar too fast. This man strikes me as isolated and a little needy; not warm, but not cold. An intellectual with flashes of an artistic cheerleader. I'm not sure I need or want either. These days, I’m being more careful who I make friends with.

We go back to talking about favorite poets and touch on Emily Dickinson. “Years ago I created a structural drawing of one of her poems. It’s three-dimensional, based on its rhythm patterns, using shapes and colors for certain words and repetitions, as well as her unique use of punctuation. I’m not sure where it is. I’ll look for it and give you a copy,” he offers.

“I’d like that.” It’s now past sunset. I think I’ve been here for several hours, which is much too long. I should have stayed an hour at the most. “Well, I’m sure Keegan could use a walk and I have to officially move my things from storage tomorrow. Still have things to do before then.”

I stand and begin moving to the door. He rises and follows. “Thank you so much for the tea and the ideas. It was very inspiring!” I genuinely mean that. I can’t remember the last time I sat and spoke with another creative person about personal projects, literature, music, poetry, the artistic life. I’m sure that’s why I’ve stayed so long. I’ve been starved for it. I’ve also been starved for male friends. The ones I’ve had over the years have dropped away for various reasons. It would be nice to have one now.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he says as he opens the door. “I really enjoyed doing the Dickinson piece, perhaps I could try my hand at creating a structural drawing of one of your poems?”

Another great idea I don’t want to pass up. I’m a very visual person, and seeing how someone else visualizes my work would be amazing. “I’ll print out some poems for you soon.”

I move out of the studio into the hall way. As sometimes happens, once I’ve been out in the open with myself and the things that are important to me, close to my heart, I feel a very urgent need to run back to my ‘hole’ and hide. Recollect my energy. This is one of those times.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he calls. I give him a little wave. When I get back to my studio, there’s a note on my board from Ed Mitchell, the resident filmmaker: Welcome! Stop by anytime to say hello.

I’ve arrived. To celebrate, Keegan and I go to the park again, which is turning into sort of a meditation destination because I’ve done without the rush of green for so long. After running around (Keegan is 13, I need to get his blood moving on a regular basis), we collapse in the grass and suddenly I notice that all around, the fireflies are out, low to the ground, flickering on and off like Christmas lights in the evening light. I think they’re mating—I’d rather think that than dying—but there are small birds are everywhere, pecking in the grass, so there it is: one of Nature’s orchestrations right there before my very eyes. Even as these bright insects are doing whatever they are meant to do (I’m sticking with procreating), it’s making it possible for another species to survive. I stay there a solid half hour watching, until it’s fully dark, then walk home and write this poem:

EQUILIBRIUM

I've finally noticed it's summer, so who cares

about the dead- end job, the dead-end love swap.

I give up compressing the unspeakable into steady lines.

Just part of the gathering around the green rim

of the park tonight, where blue shadows

the orange and rose behind the spires of Baltimore.

Below, in the bowl of baseball fields: an orchestra

of fireflies, skimming the grass, winking

like cigarette lighters at a rock concert.

There are movements in their silence—solos,

then duets. Birds I can’t name in the dark

have also come to play their part, hunting the lights

merging in the grass. This is right.

Life is burning your best colors until—suddenly—night:

a descent into some open mouth for a blank,

cold sleep between resurrections.

Excerpt #2

DISCLAIMER: I'm struggling with whether this ms should be in past or present. As I haven't decided, there will be many tense shifts. Just go with it. If you can't, I apologize in advance for your headache. I've also changed the real names, but may not have caught all of them...

     It was exactly a week from Disneyland that I arrived at the Creative Alliance building in Highlandtown, a suburb of Baltimore City, about ten minutes from downtown and the Inner Harbor. I drove down Eastern Avenue not from the city with its ESPN Zone, Hard Rock Café, boutiques, paddle boats, and National Aquarium, but from the other way, through the abandoned breweries and warehouses on the industrial side so the area looked depressed and grim. Five minutes of absolutely nothing green, some boarded up storefronts, various nationalities loitering on corners, and I started to wonder if I'd made a very stupid mistake. The whole effect was very shocking after living in a nearly rural area with hills and horses.

     The CA building itself was a two-story brick structure that used to be The Patterson movie theatre. I remember my father telling me how he used to take the bus there as a teenager most weekends. The marquee was still up and working; it's blue and yellow rows of lights rippled on and off. On all sides were tall, wide windows. While Keegan took a long pee at a nearby tree, I looked up to the second floor, knowing that was where the studios were, wondering which one was mine. Inside all was cement, white walls, and black beams of indeterminate metal, mismatched chairs and threadbare plants, a few café tables and chairs. Behind glass doors to my left were a few offices. Straight ahead was a gallery with mazelike sage-green half-walls specially constructed for what was titled, 'The Big Show,' artwork produced by members. Further, the double doors led into the theatre. A large staircase rose to my right. A few people sat on a couch by the theatre, some wandered around the exhibit. A young black man with a tremendous Afro greeted me with a friendly smile. I asked for JD, who was the Artistic Director, and the person to whom I sent my application and had been making arrangements for moving in by email and phone for the last two months. The man who came out didn't match the voice; I was expecting someone tall and too skinny, with messy hair and a musician's air about him (don't know why about the musician stuff). JD was shorter, not as much hair, glasses, pale as I was, a little thick around the middle. His eyes were large and pretty. I instantly felt that he was calm, but also mischievous, which I liked. I got the feeling he knew a lot of good jokes. Keegan liked him immediately and vice versa.

     "Welcome to the Patterson!" he greeted me cheerfully. "Let me show you around."

     I got a quick tour downstairs, sat down for a few moments to officially sign a copy of my lease, then he took me up to show me my space. The door was open and as we walked in there was the smell of fresh paint, a smell I've always found a little nauseating, but this time didn't really bother me. Next to a church, I'd never been in a space so open. There was so much light and air it was overwhelming; I took a long, deep breath and turned in circles looking at everything, trying to feel it was mine. The room was a large, upside down U-shape with the same cement floor as downstairs, and the same black beams hanging high in the air like a spider web. The ceiling was easily thirty-five feet high. Six fluorescent lights resembled swings, and there was a complex network of exposed ducts and pipes. The loft ran halfway across the apartment, with an attached, steep wooden ladder bolted to the floor. Some of the beams dissected the space of the loft, but there was still a large area where one could put a bedroom, or an office. Keegan pulled to explore so I let the leash go. He ran straight to the window and sat, happily watching activity on the street below.

     "Looks like he's home," JD observed.

     "Guess so."

     I realize there's a large hoop hanging from one of the beams. JD follows my gaze. "That's Caroline's, from next door. She was using this as a practice space. I thought it would be gone by now. I'll have someone take it down."

     "Caroline is a trapeze artist?" I knew there were seven other artists living here, but had no idea what their talents were.

     "She's an aerialist/performance artist. Her family has a background in the circus."

     God I'm boring. 

     "If you don't bump into anyone in the hall, you'll have a chance to meet the group at the next Residents' Happy Hour. We meet on the first Friday every month to check in with each other about projects and just to hang out."

     "I'm glad to hear it. Since grad school, I've been missing meeting regularly with writers or artists."

     "Somebody hosts it every month. Carl is hosting it next Friday. He's a painter. He also writes poetry—got his bachelor’s in it at Maryland years ago—so you two have that in common."

     So now I knew two of the residents' names and talents; a small step towards belonging there.

     "How many slots were open this time?" I asked.

     "Three. The other two are painters, Amanda and Ethan. Normally we'd only have one space open, but two people decided to leave after only a year."

     I nodded, very grateful for that!

     His cell phone rang. He checked it and smiled. "I'll let you settle in. Let me know if you need anything."

     "Thanks, JD."

     When the door closed I pulled a water bowl out of my bag and filled it up from the tap for Keegan. I dropped my bag by the window so he knew I'd be back, then headed out to the car to start the unloading process. The back end of my car has visibly sagged for the last eight days; I'm surprised by how much I packed into it, let alone that I made it cross country. It took me fully an hour to carry the boxes, curtains, rugs, two suitcases of clothes, pictures, computer, tape deck, bedding, Keegan's toys, air mattress, important books, shoes, lamps, plants, and kitchen stuff upstairs. Each time I staggered down the hall I noticed the notes some residents written on each other's dry erase boards in blue, black, or red marker. On Caroline's: I quit my job! Only have five month's worth of money to work on the film -- Ed; Beth, let's go over the latest drawings of the plane -- Caroline.  Each time I get to my door, my board is conspicuously blank. I knew it was very 'high school' of me, but I wanted notes too.

     Once everything is inside, I lay out the rugs, plugged in the lamps, put on a CD, made some tea with my kettle and a mug, put out some food for Keegan, tacked up some curtains over the huge window, and it started to feel more familiar. In a couple of days I'd pick up a rental truck and get the rest of my things, which had been in storage during my time in California. It had never felt right to have them shipped and, frankly, I hadn't had the money.

     Digging out some sheets, I made up the air mattress and sat on it with my tea. Keegan began running around with a new toy, skidding on the slippery cement, clearly having decided it was okay here. I'd spent the last week in various motels; it was good to stop moving. And I always got a thrill out of claiming a new apartment.

     Suddenly, as happens in summer in Baltimore, there was a thunderstorm with rushing rain. Though the roof didn't leak, by the echoing popping and drumming, it sounded as if the water was running in the pipes and ducts above. It was a strangely peaceful sound. Fishing my journal out of my purse, I wrote:

This room will always echo,
no matter how many pictures, books,

and chairs. Concrete floor is water
masked as gravity. Walls are white

as milk. Black steel beams intersect
like Chinese characters, a giant cat's

cradle, rigging. What should be still
is moving. When it rains, I hear

the language I'll learn. I'm finally at sea.
This room is full of falling.

#

     Day two: I woke up and it was there: that mid-summer floating feeling. The whir of the air conditioner reminded me of days locked up in my bedroom as a teenager, lying on my bed reading romances and Agatha Christie books all day, feeling the heat pressing against the windows to get in.  That feeling that there's all the time in the world.

     I pulled on some shorts, put my hair in a ponytail, and took Keegan to Patterson Park. We didn't have time for a proper walk yesterday so I wanted to make up for it. In just two blocks, we were there and we both bounded happily across the street and into the grass. Immediately I'm drunk on the trees. I'd missed them, the ones in LA were pitiful compared to these. There's nothing like Maryland trees to me--huge, old, thick trunks, sprawling limbs full of tangles of leaves. They rose in rows--silent gods, hugging the curve of the hill around the baseball and soccer fields. Beyond them, the rest of the park stretched as far as the eye could see, with the Baltimore skyline in the background. Keegan and I ran halfway down the hill and collapsed in the grass. After a year and a half of brown and yellow hills, with a few months of stiff green brush, I was overwhelmed and intoxicated. Looking up through the leaves, I realized I was free of a presence I'd lived with for a long time--fear. For the last eight years I'd experienced--off and on--with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Usually, anytime there was a big, important change in my life--good or bad--anxiety took over. But after having driven alone cross country twice in less than two years, finding jobs and teaching classes and finishing another book, I felt capable of handling whatever did or didn't happen in my life. I felt at home with myself. I trusted myself. You might think this would be a given, that we each feel that way automatically, but it isn't. It had taken me nearly forty years, but I got there and it felt good.

#

     After a trip to WalMart for garment racks and bags of plastic hangers (no closet, I discovered, just the deep recess where one can put things like garment racks, but which I'd been using as a bedroom. I couldn't use the loft for that purpose, as there was no railing and there was no way I could carry Keegan up and down that ladder anyway), I set to work unpacking the suitcases. About an hour later someone knocked on my door, startling me. I'd felt so self-contained, as if I was the only one in a dorm full of students who stayed home over summer break. I wanted to hold onto that. But I also wanted to meet some of the residents. I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts and opened the door.

     Standing outside was a very skinny man with whitish-gray hair brushed back off his forehead, and a long, narrow face. His eyes were small and dark, the proverbial 'beady,' which I found a little off-putting. I guessed he was in his late fifties. This was a relief to me, as I had worried a little that I might be the oldest resident--thirty-nine. I had imagined the others to be in their twenties, just out of grad school. He's in gray shorts, a T-shirt with a faded picture I can't make out, and a short sleeved gray and white plaid shirt.

     "Carl Jones." He held out his hand and I automatically shook it. It was as bony as the rest of him. "Welcome. I realize you're busy with unpacking, but if you'd like to take a break, I'd like to invite you to tea at four this afternoon."

     The interaction begins! I was raring to go after being on my own, creatively, for the last few years. Julie wrote--poetry, essays, plays, but with the kids always running around, there wasn't a lot of time for her to do her own writing, let alone read mine. Occasionally I exchanged poems with a friend from grad school, Rachel, but it wasn't the same as a regular workshop. It was kind of Carl to invite me to tea, but I'm also a naturally cautious person, especially when it comes to men (as you've seen, I have a talent for attracting the wrong kind, and that includes men I'm not interested in), so I almost wished he'd just said hello and left it at that; it seemed too much too quickly. But this was the new me, so I decided to accept and get the artistic dialogue going. In the past I've rushed to decide who someone is before I really know them, though I find I'm often right on on some things. But I'd like to just stay open and not do that anymore. See whatever and whoever comes my way without me trying to influence the universe with a list of demands. Detachment.

     "Thanks, I'd like that. Can I bring anything?"

     "No. It'll be simple, all taken care of."
Keegan, just now realizing someone was at the door, surges over and pushes out into the hall to circle Carl's feet, sniffing.

     "Hey there!" Carl said, surprised, and bent down to scratch Keegan's ears. I could tell K liked him, which was a good sign. "Bring him along. I'm at the end of the hall, around the corner."

     "Okay, we'll see you at four."

Copyright 2006, Christine Stewart. All Rights Reserved.

Excerpt #1

JUNE

I sat on the bench around the corner from Thunder Mountain, wearing my all-purpose Princess tiara, watching the Mark Twain steamship start off around the Rivers of America, its decks lined with passengers wearing green and yellow Goofy hats, red and white striped Dr. Seuss hats, purple and black jester hats with bells, crowns with pink veils, tiaras like mine and, of course, mouse ears. They waved and called, "Goodbye, goodbye!" as dramatically as if they were setting off on the Queen Elizabeth II. At that moment, it really was the Happiest Place on Earth, and I started crying. That's what I do when I'm feeling particularly grateful about my life. I'm also a dork.

It was the day before I was to drive cross country back to Baltimore, after having spent a very miserable and unfruitful year and a half in Shadow Hills (its mysterious soap opera-esque name was nothing like the reality), a horsey suburb in the hills a few miles north of Burbank, California. I really do mean miserable. Nothing about my life there provided a sustained feeling of joy and satisfaction. Of belonging. Not my anywhere-from-one-to-two-hour commute downtown (eighteen miles that should only have taken twenty-five mins but, you know the horror stories of LA traffic; they're all true) to work as an assistant to a VP in an investment firm where all the assistants and the VP I worked for, as well as several others, hated their jobs and complained A LOT; not the writing classes I taught to adults who wrote poems with lines like: Oh the ecstasy of we two joined inside my love cave (I'm not kidding); not the non-relationship I was having with an (ex?) boyfriend who alternated between wanting to see me all time and not calling for a month; not my guest house, which was owned by a very insensitive, self-absorbed woman, Noel, whom I'm fairly certain was sleeping with her daughter's boyfriend because I saw a lot of his truck and him (very late at night), but never her daughter, the girlfriend. I know. Ew. Although hating Noel should have brought me pleasure, at least for a little while, as there were so many reasons to dislike her:

1) My guesthouse was attached to the garage (remember this, it's important) and had a laundry room right outside my door. Noel used to put laundry in or run the dryer at times like midnight or 5 am, as if I couldn't hear it. Eventually I began switching off the machines after she left and went to bed.

2) Noel owned horses and kept the hay in the garage (which stank and surely attracted rats, which LA has lots of), and found it necessary to open and close the garage door five or six times around 6 am every morning to get hay or other equipment for the horses, even though the garage had a door, and even though the stables were twenty feet from the garage and she could surely have kept all that shit there.

3) A few months after I got there she decided to termite the place. If you've ever lived in LA you know that means tenting the house--a company comes and puts a huge tent over all buildings on your property (including guest houses), then pumps in various toxic agents to kill the termites and the house must remain empty for several days while it goes to work. Noel gave me one and a half day's notice to empty the place of dishes and other items that shouldn't be touched by the chemicals. I was planning on going out of town for my birthday (Vegas) with family and friends and was counting on leaving my dog there for a friend to watch. Now I had to board him. I managed to get her to pay the cost of boarding, but not after she kept calling me suggesting several very very cheap places. 

4) Back to laundry: did I mention that Noel did an average of three loads per day? This is one person. ONE. I can only speculate that she would wash whatever she wore each day as she wore it. Morning: workout clothes or pajamas: once off, into the wash they went. Work clothes: once home into the wash. Whatever she put on when she got home: into the wash before bed. Use a washcloth? Sleep on a pillowcase? Into the wash. Imagine living next to the laundry room with the machines constantly going and trying to write or sleep. She also left her clothes in either the washer or dryer for days at a time, preventing me from washing my own. I think I was able to do one load every three weeks--usually in the middle of the night after sneaking her stuff out of the washer or dryer for that period and sticking it back in when I was finished.

5) Speaking of the horses, there was a lot of shit in the driveway.

6) She would repeatedly leave her dogs (two big retrievers) in the fenced front yard--through which was the only way to the front door of the garage and my guest house--all day, and they would both leap around and jump on me with dirty paws, effectively ruining several pairs of pants. It took many messages on her voicemail for them to be put in the backyard. Where they barked all the time.

7) If she wasn't doing laundry at 5 am or opening and closing the garage door at 6 am, she and her daughter were banging weights around in the garage at 7 am and talking at the top of their voices. (This is the only time I saw the daughter and, again, it was never in the presence of the boyfriend, who I assume cleared out in time so he wouldn't get caught.)

8) She never gave out candy for Halloween and she didn't decorate for any holidays.

9) Piece de resistance: when my best friend's (Julie) kids (Nathan and Emma) made me chocolate cupcakes for my birthday, I left a few for her on a paper plate on the dryer and she took them and never said thank you.

You hate her too, right?

My friends were the bright spot, what made me last as long as a year and a half. Especially Julie, with whom I'd been friends since we were fourteen, when she'd moved from California to Maryland with her mother and brother after her parents' divorce. After high school she went to NYU, then moved back to LA, and I followed a year later with another friend. We made it through about six or seven years, but eventually all came back because we hated it. Julie went back about four years later, married, and had two children. I stayed in Maryland getting my BA, then MFA and participating in a toxic three year relationship with a very angry, selfish professor who was twenty-five years older than me technically, thirteen years old emotionally.

Here's a snapshot of my relationship with the professor (or Man Who Speaks with Forked Penis, as a writer friend of mine used to call him): On 9-11 we were living together in his house (a very cold, stone cottage that he had decided to decorate in 17th century reproductions--blue couches, red oriental rugs, and gold curtains. Furniture with feet. Framed maps. Pictures of Alexander Pope. You know--warm and cozy like that, the way most cottages are decorated.)--and instead of staying home with me, watching the news and holding onto each other for dear life to appreciate how lucky we were, he went out and test drove expensive cars all day because purchasing a car would be good for the economy at a time like that. At least that's what I found out when he finally called at 5 pm after disappearing right after the news that morning and not coming back all day. When he finally did come home, he sat in front of the TV and didn't talk to me. Around midnight, when I asked him to come to bed, he jumped to his feet, face bright red, body vibrating with anger, and yelled at me: “This isn’t about you, this is about our country. If you would stop being so stupid and emotional, you’d realize that.”

I can really pick 'em.

After all that, I was more than happy to give LA a try again and have a chance to spend time with Julie, and especially the kids, because I saw her maybe once a year if I was lucky, and I missed her. She's one of those friends whose presence in your life (even if it can only be by phone or email) is as necessary as breathing.

But, in sum, most of it sucked, and I couldn't stay there because of Julie, though I wished I could. New Year's Eve of my first year there found me on the couch watching the entire BBC version of Pride and Prejudice (yes, Colin Firth) by myself with a party bag of M&Ms, making a list of all the qualities I wanted in the man I was going to marry (topping the list that night was someone who would look good in tight riding pants and boots, and who would pace the halls of his mansion with a candle, unable to sleep for thoughts of me, with whom he would've just spent a very romantic, sexually charged (but not consummated) evening), which I hoped would be soon as I was already thirty-eight, and had decided long ago that if I wasn't married by forty, I might as well be dead.

I'd given it a year; it was time to go home. I won't bore you with the details of how I applied to jobs back in Baltimore, etc. By the end of the following June I had an executive assistant position at Johns Hopkins University, and a three year artist residency with Creative Alliance, a non-profit arts organization in Baltimore City. The latter came with a studio/loft to live in. I was thrilled about the residency, as the building housed CA's offices, a theatre, two galleries, and two classrooms, where I would be able to teach writing classes and arrange readings, as well as work on my own personal projects. I had finished my second novel (as unpublished as the first) during my time in LA, but hadn't begun to write essays about various writing retreats and conferences around the country as I wanted to, and had let my poetry lag far behind, as well as my ideas for visual representations of my poems--3-D collage-type pieces that included the poem's text as well as images and objects. At CA, I would have a space large enough to create these pieces, and with the cement floor and other industrial type features, be able to get as messy as I liked. The studio also boasted a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a busy street, which I knew would make Keegan (my dog) ecstatic.

My one last hurrah was to go to Disneyland with Julie, Nathan, and Emma, the highlight of which was that, this time, Emma was now tall enough to ride Thunder Mountain. I'm not a fan of roller coasters, however tame, so I sat and waited for the three of them to return and watched the people waving from the steamship. I felt how bittersweet a day it was, but also felt such a surge of happiness and empowerment and excitement, three things I hadn't experienced in a very long time, not even when I was moving to LA after ditching the professor. Whatever was ahead of me, it fit me; it was right. It occurred to me that most of the things that had happened in my life I had almost forced to happen, but all this, now, had fallen easily into place with little effort on my part.

This reverie was broken by the return of Julie and the kids. "We're having a huge crisis," Julie said. Emma was crying because halfway up the first incline the train had stopped and, after sitting for a long time, everyone had been asked to exit and the ride was closed for the day.

"It's such a bummer!" she wailed and Julie and I tried really hard not to laugh at how cute she sounded. I pulled her onto my lap and pushed her long, white-blond hair off her damp cheeks. "Oh, Em, we'll try again. How about I come for Thanksgiving and we do Dland again?"

"Yeah!" She was cured.

"Thanks," Julie said sarcastically. "Like there won't be ten million people here that weekend."

"Now let's get ice cream and go on It's a Small World!" I suggested.

"Yeah!" Emma said again and Nathan chimed in.

Julie began pushing the carriage towards that part of the park. "If you weren't leaving, I would so kick your ass for this. You know that ride makes me psychotic."

I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind and leaned on her. "Promise to call me once a week and say things like that to me?"

"How about twice a week?"

"Mom, come on!" Nathan yelled from miles ahead of us and Emma jumped out of the carriage to run up and join him. I couldn't allow myself to think about how much of their lives I wouldn't be part of, or Julie's. I fell behind wondering if my time in LA was wasted or not. What exactly was learned? I wished things could be clearer--spelled out in neon--when it came to messages from the universe about what in hell you were supposed to do. The reasons and answers for 'why' that I came up with were always incomplete. Which is probably how it was supposed to be.

So, at the end of June I spent five days driving back to Maryland with a heavily sedated dog and twenty books on tape. Poof – new life. How often does that happen? Time to be grateful. Time to pay attention. Time to make the most of this new chance.

Copyright 2006 Christine Stewart. All rights reserved.