new blog

hi! i have moved over to WordPress because it is way more awesome.

http://laviesepasse.wordpress.com

love,
megan

new york

the dusky harvest moon hangs within the city skyline like a ball on a string, lowered by an unseen hand that is setting this stage of a cityscape tonight, perfect in all its cool, glittering beauty. you can't smell the trash on the streets from here; you can't see the crushed cockroaches underneath the subway benches. just this faraway beauty. i swear that moon was put there intentionally so that i would feel that sharp hurt in my chest, like it feels when you stub your toe: instant pain, then a dulling ache that fades slowly into oblivion. you forget about that pain until it happens again. i don't think you ever become immune.

*****

your heartbeat is racing and i don't know why. i don't think it's me.
it's early morning and the daylight is streaming in through 7-foot-tall bay windows and outside it's just green. june was rainy. so much for that "april showers" theory. in philadelphia i watched the rain fall sideways while my cat fled under the bed at the first thunderclap. he doesn't like storms. i don't either, but i'm too big to hide. once a lightning bolt struck a tree in my front yard when my brother and i were home alone. the tree split in half and an unlucky squirrel, seeking refuge in its limbs, was slammed against our window. i guess sometimes hiding doesn't work. but my brother and i ran down into the basement anyway, and sat in a corner until the storm passed. i don't remember what we talked about, or what we were wearing, or what we did with the fallen tree. i just remember the squirrel, and its killer burst of light that illuminated the entire first floor of the house like we got too close to a giant bug zapper (it was nearly the same sound).
we're lying here together on this pullout bed and your heartbeat is racing and i don't know why. i don't think it's me. i wish it were.

a short play

[The scene: A girl in her mid-20s, HANNAH, is in a rundown apartment filled with mismatched furniture. On top of the couch sits a cat. Furniture everywhere is slightly askew, as though the apartment has been raided. The closet doors are flung open. HANNAH stands in the middle of the chaos, holding a can of roach spray.]

HANNAH: Fucking cockroaches. Fucking goddamn cockroaches. [She sprays a cockroach for an extended period of time, watches as it dies, then sighs heartily and picks up the broom to sweep it up and dumps it in the trash can. The cat lies on the couch disinterestedly].
HANNAH: Really nice job, Iris. Your ancestors would be proud.
[Door buzzer rings. HANNAH goes to wall to press buzzer] Who is it?
[A man's voice -- JASON -- replies] It's me.
HANNAH: Ok, come up. [She buzzes him in, turns and opens the door, leaving it ajar while returning to the center of the room to survey things. A few moments later, JASON, her brother, enters. He is slightly older than HANNAH].
HANNAH: [turning toward door] Just in time. This place is a war zone.
JASON: [surveys roach spray she is holding] Cockroaches, eh?
HANNAH: Yep.
JASON: [Gives HANNAH a sympathetic look] Well, if it makes you feel any better, cockroaches are really good at taking care of their young.
HANNAH: That doesn’t make me feel better at all. Why the hell would I want the cockroaches to take care of their young? I would rather have them not take care of their young. I would rather have them dead, actually, then running around my apartment all day long taking care of their goddamn young.
JASON: Just saying. Jesus.
HANNAH: [sighs loudly]
JASON: [sounds annoyed] What’s wrong with you?
HANNAH: I think I’m getting laid off.
JASON: [still annoyed] And why would you think that?
HANNAH: Just a hunch.
JASON: Well, there are plenty of other restaurants in the city…
HANNAH:[cuts him off quickly, out of exasperation] Yeah. I guess.
JASON: [pauses. then:] This is about Dad, isn’t it?
HANNAh:[defensively] No.
JASON: [stares at her]
HANNAH: [stares out window – is obviously distracted] Maybe.
JASON: Yeah. [sounds very uncomfortable/nervous] Look… it’s going to be fine. I’m sure you’re not going to be let go. You’re just being paranoid.
HANNAH: [is unconvinced] Maybe.
[Long silence]
JASON: Well. I should probably get going. Gotta get back to the shop. Just wanted to stop by and say hey.
HANNAH: Well, hey. [pauses] Guess I’ll see you at Mom’s later tonight?
JASON: Yep. Bye.
Hannah: Bye. [they hug quickly, then JASON exits out original entrance and shuts door behind him. HANNAH stares at the closed door for a moment, then walks to the couch and flicks on the TV. Nothing is on. She flicks it back off. Sighs. A cockroach runs across the floor. She throws hands up helplessly, grabs purse, and exits.]

bug lamp

we used to have a bug lamp in our backyard, by my dad's garage. when bugs got too near it we heard the telltale "ZAP" -- their funeral dirge, our relief. sometimes they were mosquitoes, but mostly they were moths. this is because, my dad told me, moths are attracted to light; they use it for navigation. In the direct light of the moon they can actually fly in a straight line. in the deceptive yellow glow of our artificial light they flew forward hoping to find their way, only to falter and hover up and down as they were helplessly drawn toward the very thing that killed them.

10:30 PM walk home

steam rolls out of the city's underbelly like a bad case of indigestion, lit from behind by the yellow streetlights, yellow like cats' eyes, glowing in the dark. a homeless woman is stretched out on the sidewalk in skintight leggings, her belly rolling softly outwards. her face is thin and stretched, as if someone -- time, sorrow -- has pulled on it like taffy. she doesn't look up as i pass, just holds her cup out to the street like an offering to the gods. the gods have not been kind to her, but still she raises her cup, hums softly, a wordless melody that seeps through the steam grates. it's good to not make eye contact; they get you that way.

a man, holding a yellow rose, emerges from the shadows. he tells me one dollar, one dollar to benefit cancer. i open my wallet and fish out a dollar bill. his eyes are watery; they look past my face. can you spare more? he asks. no, i say. he hands me my flower. i tuck it into my purse and feel embarrassed, like a tourist. when i get home i put it into an old Yuengling bottle filled with water and place it in the path of the sun. it's no use. it was dying when he handed it to me. it was dying when he got it. it was dying when it was chosen, plucked from the ground at the height of its beauty, but what can we do? fill our lives with things that die so we can feel immortal.

ugh.

every morning i get up at 6:50 AM and i hit snooze for 10 minutes and the cat comes up from his perch by my feet to curl himself around my head. i lay in bed and think about nothing. the alarm sounds again and i sit up reluctantly, and the cat jumps off the bed with an echoing thud the neighbors are sure to complain about eventually. i get up and turn on the TV to the Today show. Al Roker is talking to someone from Arkansawuh and I'm heading to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, shooing the cat out of the bathtub where he is now laying, turning on the water, climbing in. there is a ceiling tile loose that may or may not fall down one day, unexpectedly, while a child somewhere is eating a snack or playing in a sandbox. i wash my body without looking too closely. i step out of the shower, wet feet on cold tiles -- the cat pees on bathroom rugs. i towel off, brush my hair. choose my outfit for the day. now let's turn to bill henley for today's weather report. why does it always fucking rain. my black flats smell perpetually like feet. why do things smell bad and others smell good? why do birds fly? i eat my breakfast quickly and stare at my phone for the text message that signals my morning ride. the cat nips my ankle. the phone vibrates. i set my dishes in the sink. i turn off the tv. i announce my departure to the room. the walls stare blankly back at me. the cat twitches his tail. outside the cars are rushing by, two by two, the endless cycle of the work week.

campfire

We spoke, of course, but in my memories there are no words, just the dark oblivion of the woods contrasted against the deep red and orange of the campfire, a raging sun around which we orbited slowly in plastic lawn chairs. The smoke smelled like home. Faces illuminated in an amber tint, whole body parts lost in shadows. We gripped our beers as though they were our lovers, or maybe they were, six lovers in one night, most nights that summer. When we got too warm we rubbed the sweat of the beer bottles against the backs of our necks. Marshmallows were roasted too long and dangled precariously over the smoldering remains of fallen tree limbs and chopped logs of wood. We rested our heels in the overgrown grass and dandelions and listened to old AC/DC records pumped out of the garage stereo. We stared at one another. We stared into the fire then looked away, and the memory of amber-hued flames danced in the darkness. We stared at the sky, an endless black canvas littered with glittering stars.