The trouble is
They want to be in so
Many places,
Won’t
Stay still.
Each letter on each
Sheet
Can imagine itself read
By a waterfall
Or at a kitchen table
Or in a rocker winged
With bookshelves.
Each has Something Vital
To share, about
The welfare of my children or
Balanchine or
The Theotokos.
They fold themselves into airplanes,
Flit
To various ports,
Never land for long.
They resist
The confines of file folders,
Spill out, instead
Into the marketplace of my mind
Where they call out,
“Promises!
Ice-cold
Promises!
Don’t forget your
Promises!”
Labels
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Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Poetry Friday: The True Meaning of My Name
Listening to NPR this morning, I was caught by the phrase, “A woman discovers the true meaning of her name.” I asked the teens in my Young Writers Workshop at Bellevue College to write poems about that – but to write them in a language other than English. Everyone wrote in Chinese except me. I wrote in French. (My moment of victory was hearing a student exclaim, “I need to go home and study my Chinese today.”) Much hilarity ensued as they composed poems they understood (in varying degrees), but I did not.
Writing in French put my head in a completely different place. Without a dictionary handy, I had to rely on whatever vocabulary remains in my memory. I didn’t have the luxury of nine different synonyms for a word. In French the word “means” is “veut dire” – “wants to say.” A whole new world of possibility opened as I pondered what my name wants to say.
I’m going risk foolishness by reproducing my poem here without looking at the dictionary or grammar book – it may be that my phrasing is a little quaint, but I think the poem wants to be here, nonetheless.
Ce Que Mon Nom Veut Dire
Mon nom veut dire courage
passion
pureté.
Mon nom veut dire ce qu’un oiseau dit
quand il vole dessus une temple,
ce qu’une enfante dit quand elle imagine
des âmes dans des dessins de craie.
Mon nom veut parler des escaliers,
d’ascension,
du baptême,
des flammes.
De nuit en nuit mon nom s’inquiet.
Il marche la longue des corridors
en conjurant des images de nœuds.
Le matin il se réveille.
Dans la fenêtre un oiseau,
ses ailes en feu,
chant la rythme de mon nom.
What My Name Wants to Say
My name wants to say courage
passion,
purity.
My name wants to say what a bird says
when it flies over a temple,
what a child says when she imagines
souls in chalk drawings.
My name wants to speak of stairs,
of baptism,
of flames.
Night after night my name frets.
It walks the halls
conjuring images of knots.
In the morning it wakes.
In the window a bird,
its wings on fire,
sings the rhythm of my name.
Writing in French put my head in a completely different place. Without a dictionary handy, I had to rely on whatever vocabulary remains in my memory. I didn’t have the luxury of nine different synonyms for a word. In French the word “means” is “veut dire” – “wants to say.” A whole new world of possibility opened as I pondered what my name wants to say.
I’m going risk foolishness by reproducing my poem here without looking at the dictionary or grammar book – it may be that my phrasing is a little quaint, but I think the poem wants to be here, nonetheless.
Ce Que Mon Nom Veut Dire
Mon nom veut dire courage
passion
pureté.
Mon nom veut dire ce qu’un oiseau dit
quand il vole dessus une temple,
ce qu’une enfante dit quand elle imagine
des âmes dans des dessins de craie.
Mon nom veut parler des escaliers,
d’ascension,
du baptême,
des flammes.
De nuit en nuit mon nom s’inquiet.
Il marche la longue des corridors
en conjurant des images de nœuds.
Le matin il se réveille.
Dans la fenêtre un oiseau,
ses ailes en feu,
chant la rythme de mon nom.
What My Name Wants to Say
My name wants to say courage
passion,
purity.
My name wants to say what a bird says
when it flies over a temple,
what a child says when she imagines
souls in chalk drawings.
My name wants to speak of stairs,
of baptism,
of flames.
Night after night my name frets.
It walks the halls
conjuring images of knots.
In the morning it wakes.
In the window a bird,
its wings on fire,
sings the rhythm of my name.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Another Off-The-Cuff Poem
I'll have to be careful, or I'll end up making a habit of this lack of revision...
Chasing Joy
What if
Elusive joy slid
Like silk under my
Front door and out, across the dandelioned
Grass, down
The steps past the pumphouse, over the horse-tracked mud,
Where it stopped and bolted suddenly
Up a Doug fir trunk,
Wound itself around the tenth-highest branch, waited
For a God-gust --
Flapped like a flag?
With no time to collect my thoughts,
I’d have to scribble a plan, standing
Between the roots
While the horses searched my back pockets
For MacIntoshes.
How would I climb up, branch to branch,
Without so much as a pair of tree boots
Or leather gloves?
I’d have to become a raccoon,
Circling,
Peering down,
Washing my hands carefully.
Then I’d become a squirrel:
Pause to chitter of my ascent
Becoming narrower and narrower.
Then a song sparrow, small as an egg:
Flit the last three levels up and perch.
And all at once I would be me once more,
Bear that I am,
Cumbersome on such spindled height:
Begin a dangerous sway.
But just before I fell, I’d yank free
The unfurled silk, clutch the corners,
Raise my untried arms
And sail.
©2009 Katherine Grace Bond
Chasing Joy
What if
Elusive joy slid
Like silk under my
Front door and out, across the dandelioned
Grass, down
The steps past the pumphouse, over the horse-tracked mud,
Where it stopped and bolted suddenly
Up a Doug fir trunk,
Wound itself around the tenth-highest branch, waited
For a God-gust --
Flapped like a flag?
With no time to collect my thoughts,
I’d have to scribble a plan, standing
Between the roots
While the horses searched my back pockets
For MacIntoshes.
How would I climb up, branch to branch,
Without so much as a pair of tree boots
Or leather gloves?
I’d have to become a raccoon,
Circling,
Peering down,
Washing my hands carefully.
Then I’d become a squirrel:
Pause to chitter of my ascent
Becoming narrower and narrower.
Then a song sparrow, small as an egg:
Flit the last three levels up and perch.
And all at once I would be me once more,
Bear that I am,
Cumbersome on such spindled height:
Begin a dangerous sway.
But just before I fell, I’d yank free
The unfurled silk, clutch the corners,
Raise my untried arms
And sail.
©2009 Katherine Grace Bond
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Why I Do What I Do
Sometimes I hear myself saying that my life is “stressful” or “overwhelming.” My task list marches relentlessly through my Outlook calendar and I think I am unhappy about this. Last week, though, I began to pay attention to my life – to try and notice why I do what I do:
Monday: Come home from Spokane, where we have spent three days celebrating Pascha (Easter) with our friends at St. Gregorios – a community of Orthodox Christians whose backgrounds include Indian, Ethiopian, Armenian and many others. Hearing the Lord’s Prayer in multiple languages made me cry. Remember we are family.
Tuesday: Attempt to catch up and prep for the rest of the week, but indulge myself by writing a poem I don’t have time to write. Apprehensive because my calendar looks like a mosaic, but experiencing little joy flickers because of the poem. Afraid I am heading into a whirlwind and will be hit by flying pieces of mosaic.
Wednesday:
Morning -- Teach Care and Feeding of the Novel at Sky Valley Education Center. Circle up with my teens and listen to them read their chapters and respond to each other’s work. Marvel at their ability to not only write, but encourage. Love it that my son is in this class.
Realize that the staff day at Sky Valley is tomorrow and I have forgotten to put it in my calendar.
Afternoon -- Read the first, experimental chapter of my new project to my critique group, the Diviners. Receive incisive, but heartening feedback. Contemplate how privileged I am to have had fifteen years with these outstanding authors.
Evening -- Assess students, plan, email, plan, assess, email. Ask for prayer. Fall into an exhausted heap near midnight.
Thursday:
Morning/Early Afternoon -- Attend Sky Valley staff meeting, which is a blast. Talk with amazing teachers, watch a fascinating film on the brain (I am totally inspired), continue student assessments.
Late Afternoon --Teach Care and Feeding of the Novel at The Attic Learning Community. The sun is out (!!!), so we spend most of it outside acting -- throwing the characters from our various books together in earthquakes, elevators and fields of rattlesnakes. Then everyone curls up and writes. Enjoy their faces, bent over their work, deep in concentration.Evening -- Finish assessing. Plan, plan, plan for tomorrow. Midnight or 1:00 – in bed. So tired I want to cry.
Friday:
Morning -- Begin new Un-Writing class in Woodinville for elementary age homeschoolers. Some are a bit nervous at first. After wantonly tearing pages out of magazines for collaging “Secret Journals,” we head into the woods to figure out where our characters live. One of the boys exclaims excitedly, “This is completely different from what I expected!” I experience several hours of personal gladness from this comment alone.
Afternoon -- Go with a beloved and brilliant writer-friend to a scary medical appointment. Since I can’t stay the whole time, another writer comes to take my place, tag-team style, as I am leaving. Awed by how writers are a tribe – for life.
Friday Evening through Saturday -- Teen Write “Dangerous Liaisons” overnight at Carnation Tree Farm. Rejoice at having teens here from six of my different groups. Watch both characters and new friendships emerge over 24 hours as teens in capes and unusual hats rove the ponds and trees creating scenes together. I play a bestselling novelist who inserts her book titl
e and Amazon ranking into every conversation. Watch the faraway looks in their eyes as they all settle in to write. Listen to them laugh and cheer each other as they read their stories on Saturday. Grateful that my husband, daughter and middle son are here helping, while my youngest is embraced as a participant.
Saturday:
Evening -- Talk with Roger Thorsen, who owns the award-winning farm, about the June Play’s The Thing kids’ acting/playwriting workshop there. Feel suddenly delighted and energized for it.
Go to Poetry Night at Duvall Coffeehouse and hear my friend, Denis Streeter read from his first chapbook, Unfoldings. He is fantastic! Supportive friends and poets new to the Duvall reading, listen, eat good food and read at the open mic. I even read a few from my laptop, as I haven’t had time to print anything. Drop the last of my Teen Writers off at home.
Night -- Realize that throughout the whirlwind, I have been entirely happy.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
NaPoWriMo
I have not been doing NaPoWriMo because I haven't had time. But this lack of poems is giving me a kind of malaise. So here's one off-the-cuff. It KILLS me not to revise. But if I don't begin writing poems again, I shall go mad, so sacrifices have to be made.
I have no time to write this poem
but I am jealous
of the poets who have written every day this month.
I drink in their words as one parched
for every stolen sip
There is (and I have no time to start this line with something other than “there is”)
a weight in my belly
that comes from words not thought.
It is
the weight of the sun
I am hiding myself from.
(And I have no time not to end a sentence with a preposition)
Even more than words run away with me,
it is the meanings of things,
the putting-together-of
the Universe I long for
in these pilfered glances
A poem may not make
everything right,
but it does take water/fire/thieves/ paradox
and make them
Holy.
I have no time to write this poem
but I am jealous
of the poets who have written every day this month.
I drink in their words as one parched
for every stolen sip
There is (and I have no time to start this line with something other than “there is”)
a weight in my belly
that comes from words not thought.
It is
the weight of the sun
I am hiding myself from.
(And I have no time not to end a sentence with a preposition)
Even more than words run away with me,
it is the meanings of things,
the putting-together-of
the Universe I long for
in these pilfered glances
A poem may not make
everything right,
but it does take water/fire/thieves/ paradox
and make them
Holy.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Bodacious Mystery Galpal Tells All: Chapter 1
I thought I'd give you a sneak peek at my YA novel Bodacious Mystery Galpal Tells All. (Please note that this material is copyrighted and includes PG-13 content.)
CELEB’ MAGAZINE
Trentmobile Crunched
Teen superstar Trent Yves was less than friendly when caught on film after his beloved green Mini-Cooper crashed into a wall of the LA Equestrian Center Saturday Night. No injuries were reported, but the previously unblemished Trentmobile sustained a seriously crumpled hood and unknown internal wounds.
While chick-magnet Trent denied reports he'd been drinking at the wheel, witnesses said they'd seen the car careening through the parking lot and jumping curbs shortly before the wreck. According to a source close to the family, Trent's crazed mom, Wendy Burke, was a passenger in the car. "She'd drive anyone to drink," said the source. When approached, Trent gave reporters the one-fingered salute and threatened to break a photographer's camera.
Trent, who recently snagged Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival for his portrayal of a young runaway in Rocket, seems to have let international fame go to his head. While Europe and Japan have gone Trent-crazy, gobbling up every film and TV series the star has ever appeared in, the former child-wonder has become increasingly cocky.
When Celeb' caught up with him Monday to congratulate him on being voted our Reader's Choice Hot Teen Actor of the Month, Trent's only reply (to a reporter twice his age) was "I'm surprised you can keep your hands off me."
Trent’s manager had no comment.
--------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1
“Touch him,” Natalie whispered. “Go put your hands on his shoulders.”
I slid my chair back into the shadows of Earl’s Country Burger Arcade. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding, Brigitta. Boys love that. Don’t you want him back?”
Devon sat by himself playing Darkstalkers. A curl of hair fell across his cheek and he brushed it back, revealing a constellation of freckles. “I don’t do massages,” I hissed. “And I didn’t come here for Devon.”
It hurt to look at him: Devon, who made raspberry sandwiches for me when we were five; Devon, who knew our 20 acres better than Natalie. Devon, who won us the homeschool science fair prize in third grade for our project on animal scat (it is what you’re thinking); Devon, who was the first friend I let in our treehouse, even though my sister Mallory said, “Girls Only.” Devon, who started putting his arm around me last summer and saying things like, “I’d rather be with you than anyone.” Devon, who now found Jazmina_of_The_Night in his stupid Sci-Fi/Fantasy chatroom more interesting than me.
It was Natalie’s craving for French Fries that had brought us into charming downtown Kwahnesum (that’s Kwa-NEE-sum, rustic Washington hamlet, population 1054). It was supposed to be a blissful stroll through the shelves of the Dusty Cover New and Used. Just books. Quiet and reliable. No drama. No friends who betray you. No Devon.
His wiry arms flexed as he punched the buttons, concentrating the way he used to when he was helping me with a physics problem. I missed that. Natalie didn’t need to know how much.
The arcade was crowded. It was midsummer-hot and we were blockaded by sweaty, gaming bodies. The bottom book in my stack stuck to the table. Natalie’s pile of romances was topped by Makeup Secrets: Twenty Strokes to a Great New You. She’d been giving it a try in the restroom, so now her L’Oreal Smoldering Auburn curls were caught up in a silver barrette; she’d added extra glam liner to her eyes.
I am the complete opposite of Natalie – hair: longish, blondish, straightish; eyes: non-glam; goal: to find the meaning of life. Natalie wants to “ditch this two-cow town and make it big in LA.” Honest to God. But she was my best friend from the time we believed our dolls came to life at night, and if I still have a best friend, I guess it would be her.
“By the way,” Natalie sneaked a peek towards the food counter, “that new guy they have scooping ice cream? Zac Efron.”
On the other hand, maybe she still believed dolls came to life. It would be at least as weird as her “sightings.” Natalie spotted celebrity look-alikes everywhere: Corbin Bleu making lattes at Starbucks, Tobey Maguire taking tickets at the Space Needle.
“Why would Zac Efron take a job here?”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Research,” she explained patiently. “Actors are always going undercover to explore some new role. And they come to the Northwest all the time.”
My Hollywood education started with Natalie — since my family doesn’t own a TV. When Natalie saw my pop-culture ineptitude the year I went to Kwahnesum High School, she instituted “Media Night.” It had cured me of saying homeschoolish things like “What’s American Idol?” and depleting her social points.
At the Darkstalkers console, Devon leaned towards the screen where a nearly topless succubus was fighting a pharaoh in a giant headdress.
I shifted my body away from him. Couldn’t Natalie just finish her fries?
“You should totally let me do your makeup.” Natalie opened her bag.
I shook my head. “My face wouldn’t know what to do with makeup.”
She rummaged in her lipsticks and brushes. “Just maybe a little bronzer? I could so bring out your cheekbones.”
It would be so Natalie to try to make me over and then present me to Devon like her 4-H project. I shook my head again. “They test that stuff on defenseless bunnies – doesn’t that bother you?”
Had I heard him turn? Was he staring at my back?
Natalie poked at my books. “What did you get?” She scrutinized the top title with one of her upside-down smiles. “The Complete Poems of John Donne? You’re hopeless, Brigitta.” She offered me a fry.
“Donne was the greatest of the metaphysical poets.”
“Ooh! How exciting!” She touched the second book. “And what’s that? Sound the Shofar: A High Holy Days Handbook? You’re going Jewish now?”
“Mom and Dad have a kosher group staying with us at The Center. They’re biking for a sustainable planet. We’re one of their stops.”
“Wasn’t it the alien abduction victims last weekend? Why weren’t you studying them?”
“‘Abductees.’ And I don’t consider them a religion.”
For Natalie, religion is something that runs in your family – or not. If I asked her whether she likes being Jewish, she’d say it was the same as asking whether she likes having brown eyes. I can’t talk to her about how I want the Great Cosmic Mystery to let me climb on its back.
I slid the books into my lap before Natalie could look closer. Fortunately she hadn’t noticed the item folded between them: the literary equivalent of fried pork rinds. Poetry and religion were not enough to redeem it. And I’d die if Devon saw it.
“You can’t just become Jewish, Brigitta.” Natalie licked some ketchup off her thumb. “You have to either be born Jewish or convert.”
I took another French fry. (Hopefully they weren’t cooked in animal fat.) “I’m only reading up, okay?”
“Whatever,” said Natalie. “I like it better than your Baptist phase.” She peered over my head. “He’s still heeere,” she singsonged.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered, hating myself for giving in.
Natalie patted my hand. “Sweet Brigitta.” She stood up. “You’ll just have to turn around, won’t you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Do you want some ice cream?”
I shook my head. Natalie headed for Zac Efron. I would so not turn around.
Devon’s parents stopped homeschooling and stuck him in Kwahnesum High School in 9th grade because it had a chess club. A chess club! Why my parents decided Kwahnesum High School was a good idea after they’d carefully cultivated counter-culture children, I’ll never know. Mallory begged to go when she was a freshman and stayed through graduation; I lasted (barely) through one awe-inspiring year. Then I went back to the woods.
In September Devon was back at KHS and I wasn’t. In October he quit chess club. And as fall moved into winter we were (I think) a couple. On Valentine's Day he gave me a card, but it didn't say, “I love you” or anything. It didn't even have hearts on it. It had a picture of Arthur Schopenhauer with a quote that said, “Religion is the masterpiece of the art of animal training.”
He never did get around to kissing me.
I shifted, ever so slightly, in my chair.
Did his head whip back to the screen? I peeked surreptitiously. The pharaoh turned the succubus into a mummy. Had Devon fumbled the joystick? I had a rush of sympathy. I could make it easier on him. I could walk over there. I’d smile and in that smile would be Divine forgiveness. He wouldn’t have to speak. He’d take my hand, and…
Devon’s cell phone rang. “Hey!” his face broke into a grin. “Nothing much.” He laughed a goofy, un-Devonlike laugh and leaned back in his seat. Beneath the pharaoh flashed the words, “You misbegotten spawn of a jackal! Crawl back to your hole.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” said Devon. “For you.”
Thoughts of saintliness vanished.
Natalie zipped over with a bowl of Cherry Garcia. “I gave Zac my phone number.” She shivered. “God, he’s beautiful. I have a good feeling about this.”
Devon closed his phone like he’d just been named Beefcake of the Year. Natalie glanced at him. “So,” she said, still flushed with her own victory, “why are you still huddled over your books, Brigitta?”
Before I could run, she was beside him. “Devon!” she trilled. “Guess who's here?”
There was no way to hide.
“Brigitta Schopenhauer,” he said, as if I was a distant acquaintance.
“Hey.” I felt wobbly. Did I have big wet spots under my arms? Why did I care?
Devon slid his phone into his pocket. “I meant to come by,” he said. Was that, just maybe, regret in his eyes?
Natalie seized her matchmaking opportunity. “You should come by. Tonight. We have a meeting in the treehouse and you haven't been in forever.”
His irises had little gold flecks in them. He'd said he meant to come by; "coming by" had meaning for him: it meant —
“I left my jacket the last time,” he said.
I imagined strangling him with said jacket.
“There'll be pizza,” said Natalie, while I stood there like an idiot.
“Um, okay,” said Devon. He looked caught. He pulled on his hoody. “See you around.” He beat it fast out the door.
“Huh.” Natalie frowned. “Don’t worry, Brigitta. He’s just nervous around you. It’s obvious he still likes you. We just need to—”
I didn’t stick around to hear what “we” needed to do. I made for the cave in the back. No one played the 80’s games. Space Invaders faced the wall, making a phonebooth-sized hidey hole. I threw myself in.
I landed, hard, in someone's lap. “Hey!” he yelled.
I jumped off him as my books hit his feet and his third life dematerialized on the screen. He sprang up, his hands in fists. “What the hell?” Clearly, I'd invaded his space.
He looked a little older than me — dark hair, scowling eyebrows. And better-looking than I wanted to notice. Maybe I could dematerialize.
He bent and began gathering my books. He smelled good. He had very broad shoulders. He handed me the Donne, the Jewish festivals…
Too late I dove for the floor. I groped for the rest in a last-ditch attempt to save my dignity, but it was useless. The boy reached under the console and retrieved the last item: The National Enquirer, flopped open to shout, “Pamela's New Boytoy Needs Penis Implants.” He slapped it on my stack with an expression of pure disgust.
He offered me a hand, but I ignored it. Fake gallantry I could do without. I straightened as loftily as possible and pitched the Enquirer into a garbage.
The boy’s scorn melted into amusement. “Who are you?”
“Never mind,” I said as Natalie sailed in calling, “Brigitta!”
She stopped as soon as she saw him. “God,” she said, “You look just like Trent Yves.”
Maybe a hole would open up in the floor.
The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. “I'm Luke,” he said.
“Did you see Trent in Rocket?” Natalie babbled. “He should win a Golden Globe, I think.
“I don't follow movies,” said Luke.
“Really?” Natalie flashed her pearly whites at him. “What are you into? Music? Football?”
He smirked and looked at me. “Tabloids,” he said. “Love those tabloids.”
I wanted to brain him with my Donne.
He glanced at the clock. “I have to go,” he said. He edged past the still-chattering Natalie.
I squeezed my books tight so my arms wouldn't shake. Natalie didn't notice. “What was that about?” she said, when he was gone.
“Let's just leave.” I scanned tables for my purse. Mom wanted me home. Mallory was coming back from college so she could help us with The Center for the rest of the summer.
“He's so hot,” said Natalie. “God, those muscles. And the long lashes? Didn't you think he looked like Trent Yves?”
I shrugged. Trent Yves was definitely not a star I kept track of.
“What is wrong with you?” said Natalie. “Did you look at that face? That gorgeous, gorgeous face?”
I had looked at that face and it had looked back at me, and seen — what? Poet-and-violinist Brigitta? Seeker-after-Truth Brigitta? Brigitta-who-knows-the-origins-of-hundreds-of-words? No. He'd seen vapid Brigitta. Easily-entertained Brigitta. Sellout Brigitta.
CELEB’ MAGAZINE
Trentmobile Crunched
Teen superstar Trent Yves was less than friendly when caught on film after his beloved green Mini-Cooper crashed into a wall of the LA Equestrian Center Saturday Night. No injuries were reported, but the previously unblemished Trentmobile sustained a seriously crumpled hood and unknown internal wounds.
While chick-magnet Trent denied reports he'd been drinking at the wheel, witnesses said they'd seen the car careening through the parking lot and jumping curbs shortly before the wreck. According to a source close to the family, Trent's crazed mom, Wendy Burke, was a passenger in the car. "She'd drive anyone to drink," said the source. When approached, Trent gave reporters the one-fingered salute and threatened to break a photographer's camera.
Trent, who recently snagged Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival for his portrayal of a young runaway in Rocket, seems to have let international fame go to his head. While Europe and Japan have gone Trent-crazy, gobbling up every film and TV series the star has ever appeared in, the former child-wonder has become increasingly cocky.
When Celeb' caught up with him Monday to congratulate him on being voted our Reader's Choice Hot Teen Actor of the Month, Trent's only reply (to a reporter twice his age) was "I'm surprised you can keep your hands off me."
Trent’s manager had no comment.
--------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1
“Touch him,” Natalie whispered. “Go put your hands on his shoulders.”
I slid my chair back into the shadows of Earl’s Country Burger Arcade. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding, Brigitta. Boys love that. Don’t you want him back?”
Devon sat by himself playing Darkstalkers. A curl of hair fell across his cheek and he brushed it back, revealing a constellation of freckles. “I don’t do massages,” I hissed. “And I didn’t come here for Devon.”
It hurt to look at him: Devon, who made raspberry sandwiches for me when we were five; Devon, who knew our 20 acres better than Natalie. Devon, who won us the homeschool science fair prize in third grade for our project on animal scat (it is what you’re thinking); Devon, who was the first friend I let in our treehouse, even though my sister Mallory said, “Girls Only.” Devon, who started putting his arm around me last summer and saying things like, “I’d rather be with you than anyone.” Devon, who now found Jazmina_of_The_Night in his stupid Sci-Fi/Fantasy chatroom more interesting than me.
It was Natalie’s craving for French Fries that had brought us into charming downtown Kwahnesum (that’s Kwa-NEE-sum, rustic Washington hamlet, population 1054). It was supposed to be a blissful stroll through the shelves of the Dusty Cover New and Used. Just books. Quiet and reliable. No drama. No friends who betray you. No Devon.
His wiry arms flexed as he punched the buttons, concentrating the way he used to when he was helping me with a physics problem. I missed that. Natalie didn’t need to know how much.
The arcade was crowded. It was midsummer-hot and we were blockaded by sweaty, gaming bodies. The bottom book in my stack stuck to the table. Natalie’s pile of romances was topped by Makeup Secrets: Twenty Strokes to a Great New You. She’d been giving it a try in the restroom, so now her L’Oreal Smoldering Auburn curls were caught up in a silver barrette; she’d added extra glam liner to her eyes.
I am the complete opposite of Natalie – hair: longish, blondish, straightish; eyes: non-glam; goal: to find the meaning of life. Natalie wants to “ditch this two-cow town and make it big in LA.” Honest to God. But she was my best friend from the time we believed our dolls came to life at night, and if I still have a best friend, I guess it would be her.
“By the way,” Natalie sneaked a peek towards the food counter, “that new guy they have scooping ice cream? Zac Efron.”
On the other hand, maybe she still believed dolls came to life. It would be at least as weird as her “sightings.” Natalie spotted celebrity look-alikes everywhere: Corbin Bleu making lattes at Starbucks, Tobey Maguire taking tickets at the Space Needle.
“Why would Zac Efron take a job here?”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Research,” she explained patiently. “Actors are always going undercover to explore some new role. And they come to the Northwest all the time.”
My Hollywood education started with Natalie — since my family doesn’t own a TV. When Natalie saw my pop-culture ineptitude the year I went to Kwahnesum High School, she instituted “Media Night.” It had cured me of saying homeschoolish things like “What’s American Idol?” and depleting her social points.
At the Darkstalkers console, Devon leaned towards the screen where a nearly topless succubus was fighting a pharaoh in a giant headdress.
I shifted my body away from him. Couldn’t Natalie just finish her fries?
“You should totally let me do your makeup.” Natalie opened her bag.
I shook my head. “My face wouldn’t know what to do with makeup.”
She rummaged in her lipsticks and brushes. “Just maybe a little bronzer? I could so bring out your cheekbones.”
It would be so Natalie to try to make me over and then present me to Devon like her 4-H project. I shook my head again. “They test that stuff on defenseless bunnies – doesn’t that bother you?”
Had I heard him turn? Was he staring at my back?
Natalie poked at my books. “What did you get?” She scrutinized the top title with one of her upside-down smiles. “The Complete Poems of John Donne? You’re hopeless, Brigitta.” She offered me a fry.
“Donne was the greatest of the metaphysical poets.”
“Ooh! How exciting!” She touched the second book. “And what’s that? Sound the Shofar: A High Holy Days Handbook? You’re going Jewish now?”
“Mom and Dad have a kosher group staying with us at The Center. They’re biking for a sustainable planet. We’re one of their stops.”
“Wasn’t it the alien abduction victims last weekend? Why weren’t you studying them?”
“‘Abductees.’ And I don’t consider them a religion.”
For Natalie, religion is something that runs in your family – or not. If I asked her whether she likes being Jewish, she’d say it was the same as asking whether she likes having brown eyes. I can’t talk to her about how I want the Great Cosmic Mystery to let me climb on its back.
I slid the books into my lap before Natalie could look closer. Fortunately she hadn’t noticed the item folded between them: the literary equivalent of fried pork rinds. Poetry and religion were not enough to redeem it. And I’d die if Devon saw it.
“You can’t just become Jewish, Brigitta.” Natalie licked some ketchup off her thumb. “You have to either be born Jewish or convert.”
I took another French fry. (Hopefully they weren’t cooked in animal fat.) “I’m only reading up, okay?”
“Whatever,” said Natalie. “I like it better than your Baptist phase.” She peered over my head. “He’s still heeere,” she singsonged.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered, hating myself for giving in.
Natalie patted my hand. “Sweet Brigitta.” She stood up. “You’ll just have to turn around, won’t you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Do you want some ice cream?”
I shook my head. Natalie headed for Zac Efron. I would so not turn around.
Devon’s parents stopped homeschooling and stuck him in Kwahnesum High School in 9th grade because it had a chess club. A chess club! Why my parents decided Kwahnesum High School was a good idea after they’d carefully cultivated counter-culture children, I’ll never know. Mallory begged to go when she was a freshman and stayed through graduation; I lasted (barely) through one awe-inspiring year. Then I went back to the woods.
In September Devon was back at KHS and I wasn’t. In October he quit chess club. And as fall moved into winter we were (I think) a couple. On Valentine's Day he gave me a card, but it didn't say, “I love you” or anything. It didn't even have hearts on it. It had a picture of Arthur Schopenhauer with a quote that said, “Religion is the masterpiece of the art of animal training.”
He never did get around to kissing me.
I shifted, ever so slightly, in my chair.
Did his head whip back to the screen? I peeked surreptitiously. The pharaoh turned the succubus into a mummy. Had Devon fumbled the joystick? I had a rush of sympathy. I could make it easier on him. I could walk over there. I’d smile and in that smile would be Divine forgiveness. He wouldn’t have to speak. He’d take my hand, and…
Devon’s cell phone rang. “Hey!” his face broke into a grin. “Nothing much.” He laughed a goofy, un-Devonlike laugh and leaned back in his seat. Beneath the pharaoh flashed the words, “You misbegotten spawn of a jackal! Crawl back to your hole.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” said Devon. “For you.”
Thoughts of saintliness vanished.
Natalie zipped over with a bowl of Cherry Garcia. “I gave Zac my phone number.” She shivered. “God, he’s beautiful. I have a good feeling about this.”
Devon closed his phone like he’d just been named Beefcake of the Year. Natalie glanced at him. “So,” she said, still flushed with her own victory, “why are you still huddled over your books, Brigitta?”
Before I could run, she was beside him. “Devon!” she trilled. “Guess who's here?”
There was no way to hide.
“Brigitta Schopenhauer,” he said, as if I was a distant acquaintance.
“Hey.” I felt wobbly. Did I have big wet spots under my arms? Why did I care?
Devon slid his phone into his pocket. “I meant to come by,” he said. Was that, just maybe, regret in his eyes?
Natalie seized her matchmaking opportunity. “You should come by. Tonight. We have a meeting in the treehouse and you haven't been in forever.”
His irises had little gold flecks in them. He'd said he meant to come by; "coming by" had meaning for him: it meant —
“I left my jacket the last time,” he said.
I imagined strangling him with said jacket.
“There'll be pizza,” said Natalie, while I stood there like an idiot.
“Um, okay,” said Devon. He looked caught. He pulled on his hoody. “See you around.” He beat it fast out the door.
“Huh.” Natalie frowned. “Don’t worry, Brigitta. He’s just nervous around you. It’s obvious he still likes you. We just need to—”
I didn’t stick around to hear what “we” needed to do. I made for the cave in the back. No one played the 80’s games. Space Invaders faced the wall, making a phonebooth-sized hidey hole. I threw myself in.
I landed, hard, in someone's lap. “Hey!” he yelled.
I jumped off him as my books hit his feet and his third life dematerialized on the screen. He sprang up, his hands in fists. “What the hell?” Clearly, I'd invaded his space.
He looked a little older than me — dark hair, scowling eyebrows. And better-looking than I wanted to notice. Maybe I could dematerialize.
He bent and began gathering my books. He smelled good. He had very broad shoulders. He handed me the Donne, the Jewish festivals…
Too late I dove for the floor. I groped for the rest in a last-ditch attempt to save my dignity, but it was useless. The boy reached under the console and retrieved the last item: The National Enquirer, flopped open to shout, “Pamela's New Boytoy Needs Penis Implants.” He slapped it on my stack with an expression of pure disgust.
He offered me a hand, but I ignored it. Fake gallantry I could do without. I straightened as loftily as possible and pitched the Enquirer into a garbage.
The boy’s scorn melted into amusement. “Who are you?”
“Never mind,” I said as Natalie sailed in calling, “Brigitta!”
She stopped as soon as she saw him. “God,” she said, “You look just like Trent Yves.”
Maybe a hole would open up in the floor.
The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. “I'm Luke,” he said.
“Did you see Trent in Rocket?” Natalie babbled. “He should win a Golden Globe, I think.
“I don't follow movies,” said Luke.
“Really?” Natalie flashed her pearly whites at him. “What are you into? Music? Football?”
He smirked and looked at me. “Tabloids,” he said. “Love those tabloids.”
I wanted to brain him with my Donne.
He glanced at the clock. “I have to go,” he said. He edged past the still-chattering Natalie.
I squeezed my books tight so my arms wouldn't shake. Natalie didn't notice. “What was that about?” she said, when he was gone.
“Let's just leave.” I scanned tables for my purse. Mom wanted me home. Mallory was coming back from college so she could help us with The Center for the rest of the summer.
“He's so hot,” said Natalie. “God, those muscles. And the long lashes? Didn't you think he looked like Trent Yves?”
I shrugged. Trent Yves was definitely not a star I kept track of.
“What is wrong with you?” said Natalie. “Did you look at that face? That gorgeous, gorgeous face?”
I had looked at that face and it had looked back at me, and seen — what? Poet-and-violinist Brigitta? Seeker-after-Truth Brigitta? Brigitta-who-knows-the-origins-of-hundreds-of-words? No. He'd seen vapid Brigitta. Easily-entertained Brigitta. Sellout Brigitta.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday Half-Day Writing Workshops for Grades 3-5
When: Selected Friday Riverview School District half-days from 1:30-3:30- Who: 3rd-5th graders (Need not attend Riverview Schools)
- Where: Carnation Tree Farm!
- What: A variety of workshops ranging from poetry to stories to creating a play.
- 7 wkshps =$155 6=$150 5=$135 4=$120 3=$99 2=$70 1 = $45
Sniffing Out a Story 1 -- March 6
A good story makes readers feel like they’re there, seeing, smelling, touching, tasting and hearing everything on the page. So what happens when a writer hears a strange sound, smells an intriguing scent, and tastes something delicious? What story may come from unexpected surprises? Find out!
Sniffing Out a Story 2 – March 20
Bring your story and tweak a little here and a little there to make it even better. Then we’ll read them around the fire – with marshmallows!
Poet to Poet (with special guest poet Maya Ganesan) – April 3
I thought the earth remembered me – Mary Oliver
And it was at that age…poetry arrived in search of me – Pablo Neruda
And every morning I went to the willow grove and brushed the trunks and I whispered questions like, How are you doing? and, Is it very cold here at night?—Maya Ganesan
Words can stir something secret inside us. That something is poetry. If we let other poets speak to us, then we will have something to say. Ask Maya Ganesan who, at age 11, is a published poet. Maya cannot read poems without writing poems. I think you’ll find her words have the same effect on you! Listen to poems by Maya and other published poets, then write and read your own. Maya will bring her new book, Apologies to an Apple and you can take home a signed copy.
Where the Stories Live 1 -- May 1
In a hidden hollow beneath gnarled branches; behind a boulder under vines; atop a grassy mound where deer stop to listen: here is where the stories live. Why sit at a desk waiting for stories? Stories pounce when you least expect them. Lie down on the earth; sneak up on a rabbit; run down a hill – and you’ll catch the stories wild. Dress for outside and be ready to imagine.
Where the Stories Live 2 – May 15
Maybe your story can live in a magazine! Katherine will show you how professionals submit their stories and help you make your own submission to a magazine such as Stone Soup, which publishes work by kids. Even if your story is not published, you’ll be on your way to being a pro! Send your story to Katherine in a Word file by May 10 and it will go in our class book.
The Play’s the Thing 1 -- June 5
“In which we create a play on June 5 and perform it on June 12.” (Has Katherine lost her mind?)
Acting is making stories on your feet. In this workshop, you will come as a character you create (costumes welcome) and discover that you and the other characters are part of the same story. This story will become our play.
The Play’s the Thing 2 – June 12
Come with your costume and props. Today’s the day we rehearse like mad so that our parents can see our play at 3:30. (Allow 15-20 minutes for an outdoor performance)
contact: Dawn@KatherineGraceBond.com to register.
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