A doglikedog

The air is spitty and my love is unhappy at home under a fuchsia quilt and my throat is pulsing with the beginnings of a flu but I am able to concentrate and make essays about Africa cohere today when I am not writing this, which, really, is better than not being able to like I was unable to yesterday, isn’t it now.

Here’s a doglikedog I saw in the post office on Saturday while I was picking up a 1,045 page book by Thomas Pynchon that I may read at some unknown future point as well as a novel by Laurie Moore. The post office has a miserable little lobby that radioactivates small, four-legged animals, maybe.

1920s Boat Ride Around NY Harbor

I Just Awoke From This Dream

We were picked up for not having passports in Iran. We were held with fear, not beatings—just deprivation of reassurance and threat that we were in trouble far greater than we knew. We were afraid. At one point, a group of raucous dark-haired Argentineans was held in the next room and I succinctly said to them, “Tell the embassy: We are American journalists.” I felt quite proud I had mouthed the correct words in my narrow window of communication. It was then a fellow prisoner told me that they, these Argentineans, too, would remain in this jail, and why would I think they could help us? I realized she was right and felt impotent again.

The woman jailer came to us and said we would be moved to a place far worse than this. That if we think we’d had it bad, we had no idea what was coming. She looked like a masculine gym teacher I had as a young teenager—hair in a mat of heavy curls cut close to her head. We would be making crowns of thorns, like Jesus wore, not to wear, but for others. And if we think it would not destroy our hands with each prick and cut, we would soon see what a torture this construction would become, that each thorn would tear at our hands’ meat and slice like razors across our fingers and palms. I become more afraid, but resolve I can do it.

We are sent to a road to wait for a bus to move us, only when two large dirty-white cars arrive, our fellow Iranian tells us these are Special Security vans, meant for our subtle, they-will-look-the-other-way escape across the border. We pile in and drive fast. Only the scenery becomes rocky and forested, and we realize we are still being held, only now in a wilderness in which we would die of thirst and hunger if we could not find our way. Green spreads far and thin but holds chunky gray-white rocks in ragged groupings. The close-cut grass is a yellow-blue coat across the earth that lulls me.

But I would soon lose my socks and shoes and shed my jacket without remembering how. I would chill upward from my toes. I would regret that my camera remains at my apartment with all the photos I have taken on this trip before now.

We come across a huge pool in the woods in which a movie is being filmed. I see John Lithgow and realize he is the person to tell we need help. We wade uncomfortably, watched by the crew, the actors, the grips and lighting guys, through the chlorinated water and I whisper as we pass John, “We are Americans. We are journalists. Tell them.” He seems startled but maybe understands.

I see my black dog drinking heavily from the pool, and fear his poisoning, but know his thirst. I realize then the heaviness our families will feel must be beginning as they finally know we are stuck without charge in Iran, possibly tortured. I worry we have been released too soon, that we will be ridiculed for scaring them, that my detention will not matter enough among the dozens of journalists held for prolonged periods in this country. I realize then that as long as we have made it out, it does not. We go onward, to Iraq.

Commands in Hand

I have been told I must spend this $10 bill on a cab to dinner. It was nestled in an empty cigarette carton, the first pack of cigarettes I’d bought in months. I bought them on a night of a fight—smoked one. The following night, last night, they sat on my couch, hiding under a few envelopes of solicitous junk mail, and one catalogue. This morning, I chucked them into my bag along with matches I’d gotten free at a deli in Brooklyn while crying.

“Did you smoke another cigarette?” Girl asks me.

“No,” I say.

“Look in the box then,” she says.

I do. I find the bill and no cigarettes.

“Read the note,” she says.

I do. She loves me.

Now I am supposed to spend the ten in a cab to go on a date to celebrate an anniversary: “It is all part of an elaborate plan,” she says. “You have to put it back out in the world.”

I argue, assuming this will be a hard bit of paper to part with. But I believe in her, and I will do it.

Seventh Avenue and 29th Street, Morning Commute

9:42 a.m.

Or a Puppet

Mza: WTF. That's an emoticon not an animal.

Constructing

The sun goes down earlier now. This was taken at just before 8 p.m. as I walked home the other night. There are men working within that scaffolding. With those startling lights, I felt like I’d come upon an Italian carnevale, something like San Genarro. I stood too far into the street with cars approaching to show you this.

The carapace held these hammering men so neatly. It was like a mini-house turned inside-out.

Gaddafi interpreter 'collapsed during UN speech'

From the U.K.'s Times:

A Libyan interpreter brought over by Muammar Gaddafi to translate his speech at the United Nations General Assembly collapsed 75 minutes into the rambling diatribe, it has emerged.

Visiting dignitaries usually rely on the UN's highly professional team of interpreters but the Libyan leader brought his own expert linguists to translate his speech into English and French, saying that the UN's Arabic language interpreters would not be able to understand his Libyan dialect.

In the event, according to the New York Post, Colonel Gaddafi spoke in standard Arabic - but still got lost in translation. An hour and a quarter into the speech his interpreter shouted into the live microphone in Arabic: "I just can't take it any more."

At that point, the UN's Arabic section chief, Rasha Ajalyaqeen, took over and translated the final 20 minutes of the speech.

"His interpreter just collapsed – this is the first time I have seen this in 25 years," another UN Arabic interpreter said.

Ms Ajalyaqeen was given the next day off.

"Ten minutes with Gaddafi earns you a lot of annual leave," one of her colleagues said.

Subject Message: 'WTF?'

MLP is on an 18-mile run in Pennsylvania. She is sending me photos she takes along the way. She just sent me…this:

'One of Us Is the Monkey.'

I sent MLP the following image with the caption: "One of us is the monkey."


She replied with the following image, saying: "Clearly, I am the monkey...look closer..."

I Am Trying to Get a Package. Kafka Has Rerouted It.

Please, read from the bottom up.

NEW YORK, NY, US 09/10/2009 11:03 P.M. EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL / DELIVERY RESCHEDULED [Lady on the phone wonders if there are bad weather conditions or something else happening in New York, 'cause, like, she's not in New York. No, I tell her, no, there are not. It's rainy this morning though, thanks for asking.]
09/10/2009 10:07 P.M. DESTINATION SCAN
09/10/2009 8:00 P.M. EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL
NEW YORK, NY, US 09/09/2009 11:55 P.M. EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL / DELIVERY RESCHEDULED
09/09/2009 10:00 P.M. DESTINATION SCAN [I run into the UPS guy in the elevator. He ponders said "emergency." He thinks it has something to do with our freight elevator being broken. The package I am awaiting, it is small.]
09/09/2009 8:12 P.M. EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL
09/09/2009 7:31 A.M. OUT FOR DELIVERY
09/09/2009 5:40 A.M. ARRIVAL SCAN
MASPETH, NY, US 09/09/2009 5:11 A.M. DEPARTURE SCAN
09/09/2009 12:24 A.M. ARRIVAL SCAN
BROOKLYN, NY, US 09/08/2009 11:40 P.M. DEPARTURE SCAN
09/08/2009 1:00 A.M. OUT FOR DELIVERY
09/08/2009 1:00 A.M. THE DELIVERY INTERCEPT REQUEST FOR THIS PACKAGE WAS SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED / THE ADDRESS HAS BEEN CORRECTED. THE DELIVERY HAS BEEN RESCHEDULED [You know, send it to my office.]
09/08/2009 12:59 A.M. THE APARTMENT NUMBER IS MISSING OR IS INCORRECT. UPS IS ATTEMPTING TO OBTAIN THIS INFORMATION. / THE EXCEPTION WAS OVERRIDDEN AND A NEW EXCEPTION WAS CREATED.
09/04/2009 10:17 A.M. THE SHIPPER HAS REQUESTED A DELIVERY INTERCEPT FOR THIS PACKAGE / DELIVERY TO AN ALTERNATE ADDRESS WAS REQUESTED
BROOKLYN, NY, US 09/03/2009 11:43 P.M. THE APARTMENT NUMBER IS MISSING OR IS INCORRECT. UPS IS ATTEMPTING TO OBTAIN THIS INFORMATION. / A POSTCARD HAS BEEN SENT TO THE RECIPIENT REQUESTING THAT THEY CONTACT UPS.
09/03/2009 5:10 P.M. THE APARTMENT NUMBER IS MISSING OR IS INCORRECT. UPS IS ATTEMPTING TO OBTAIN THIS INFORMATION. [I do not have an apartment number, just FYI.]
09/03/2009 7:04 A.M. OUT FOR DELIVERY
09/03/2009 6:27 A.M. OUT FOR DELIVERY
09/03/2009 6:09 A.M. ARRIVAL SCAN
PHILADELPHIA, PA, US 09/03/2009 3:05 A.M. DEPARTURE SCAN
PHILADELPHIA, PA, US 09/02/2009 10:24 P.M. ARRIVAL SCAN
LAWNSIDE, NJ, US 09/02/2009 9:31 P.M. DEPARTURE SCAN
09/02/2009 7:24 P.M. ORIGIN SCAN
US 09/02/2009 8:22 P.M. BILLING INFORMATION RECEIVED
Tracking results provided by UPS: 09/11/2009 10:52 A.M. ET

Everything Forms Inside If You Let It

I lay on the ultrasound table waiting for the technician, staring across the room at these:


They are babies in utero. In 3D. I’d never seen that. I’d also never seen any of the endometrium on my uterus--it looked like a teardroppy lump on the gyrating gray of the scan--or the flow of blood in my own ovaries, which was technicolored in red and blue pulsating blobs, swirling like fairies doing mischief in my reproductive system. Now I have.

They, Perhaps, Did Not Forsee This

Sandwich board on Seventh Avenue in the 20s. 5:53 p.m., August 27, 2009.

"Sometimes I feel like my boobs are attacking me."

Anonyfriend: Sometimes I feel like my boobs are attacking me.

McBickle: ZOMG. What does this mean.

Anonyfriend: They're pushed up today.

McBickle: Mrs. Ladyfriend says: Holy shit.
Mrs. Ladyfriend: Holy shit. Ain’t never felt that way.

Anonyfriend: And I feel like they're creeping up.

McBickle: You wear ’em high.

Anonyfriend: Just looked down and was like, “Leave me alone.”

Accidental Photo Taken Last Night

Thy Will Be Done...(Fur)

Mza just tuned in her IM channel to me:

Mza: Bleeg. Splarg.
McBickle: Bloop

She wanted to show me a possible vacation rental:

Mza: Oy, there are SUCH pretty houses on that site.
McBickle: Oy.
Mza: Like, rehabbed old Cape Cod beach cottages. Love. This one is newer and a little farther from the beach but it's cheap. Is it further or farther, in that context?
McBickle: Farther. Think "far."
Mza: In what context do you think "fur?"
McBickle: Often.
Mza: Please post that on your blog.
McBickle: OK.

'Rushing'

"...to get to you."

(I swoon.)

Wig Shop on 31st Street

My Friends Are Iron-Deficient Oversharers

4:02 p.m.
Mrs. Ladyfriend: I'm experiencing a very strange craving for tuna fish.

4:26 p.m.
Mza: Craving liverwurst.

Dappling

This morning, 6:29 a.m.

I woke up at 5. My brain isn’t sure what it’s doing. I tried to re-sleep, but my mind wouldn’t quiet down. I was remembering the air last night as I walked home after work. The sun was just starting to go down and the wind was stronger than it’s been and cool and fresh and I remembered smiling and thinking about Spain. Not Spain as a place, but Spain as an idea—“Spain.” I realized I hadn’t felt calm in New York like that in a long time. It was as though I were again feeling air that can only be sensed when I am happy.

It’s a quality of breeze that is twined with the light like bodies in the morning in bed.

I Quote a Woman I Don't Yet Know

"Today, I feel a great weird excitement welling up in me."


This is a beach in San Sebastian, Spain. I took this last week.

2:36 a.m.

A storm cracked open the Brooklyn sky two nights in a row; each night I awoke and looked at the time: 2:36 a.m.

Wound

Pan Pipe My Brain

Why is that airy-sounding Peruvian flute-pipe instrument de rigueur for New York City street fairs and Southwestern airport soundtracks?

Why does it make my brain feel hollow and make me see everything in lavender laced with geode crystals?

Please stop playing it street fair near my house today, I beg you.

At least now I know I am not alone.

Pine

When I close my eyes I see a cold pine forest. Not too cold, more the sort of cold that breezes in between trees, tall trees that reach into the dark blue sky and gather at pointed tips as if attracted to one another. The ground in the clearing is dry and a deep breath tastes of pine sap and teal needles.

I keep seeing this when I close my eyes. I’ve been looking for it each time, hoping to enter that calm, chilly woods and stay in it as long as my waking dream will allow. It’s a memory from childhood grown into what I will need to find in my future.

An Unfinished Charcoal at the End of a Tunnel

Don't Do It

Monday Morning

In the past 12 hours I’ve had a budding relationship end, a good friendship begin, a man seek me out on “Missed Connections” on Craigslist, another tell me he loves me, and yet one more punch me as he passed me on his bicycle for no reason other than malice.

The sky is dark with rain and my head is achey and full of the pain and hurt and love of others, taken and offered and shoved at me. I’m considering going into that alternate universe now. You know, crying there a little, as I did to my bagel man this morning, who kindly offered to break in two the man on the bike: “I will snap him in half,” he told me. Thank you, bagel man. I appreciated the physical demonstration of snappage you gave me with your hands.

For Some Reason, I Love This

Mr. Ladyfriend just called me to say he’ll be in my hood to FedEx something and asked if I wanted to have a drink. So I said, “Wait. Are you sticking around my neighborhood anyway? ‘Cause I’m still at work.”

And he said: “Well, let’s say that if we opened up an alternate universe in which you didn’t exist, I would just Fedex this and go home.”

Where They Lost It

In honor of the beauty of spring sproinging in high form today, I started asking around on IM where my friends “lost” their straight virginity. You know, locationally. Structure and place. Some people threw in some extra, delicious info, however. Here’s what I’ve gotten so far:

“A tent in Alaska.”

“In a bed in the south of France.”

“On a living room floor of a third party in Virginia.”

“A cabin in the Berkshires. He made use of cornhusker’s lotion as lubricant.”

“Living room, sleeping bag, NYE party. Girl with a glass eye. I win.”


So far, you do. Yes.

More.

The warmth of the air wending through the wet clouds is making me want to burst through a person-shaped cocoon around my body; I physically want to scream from my arms and out my face.

More.

Excruciatingly

Two lines from Edmund White’s autobiography, My Lives:

1. Because this did that for me:

“We’re all creatures of habit and every old dog stares reproachfully at whatever disturbs his routine, but inspiration breaks through at exactly these ruptures.”

2. Because prose sometimes expresses a meaning through metaphor and description, but also through the stringing together of words at the same time, and this does that:

“All I was doing was living—excruciatingly—in the remembered moment, not in the perception of the scene before me (the wet pillowcase, the gauze curtains shifting and swelling in the breeze slipping in through the cracked window) but of the beautiful body that my imagination turned like a vase before setting it out to dry.”

Oofy

I wrote the word "oof" to the Woman With the Red Earrings and she wrote back, “ 'Oof' is my friend’s favorite words.” Well, I thought, okay.

Then she sent me this:

Which was exactly after I told her I felt like the stupid not-smiling smiley face, the ambivalent face on gchat—the one that lets the face fall down the flat line of the mouth. Slanty.