There is no way to pin the heart down
on the bronze dissecting tray.
Her palm must hold it flat for the procedure.
She threads the needle
and looks for flesh strong enough to hold the stitch.
It is not a simple task:
avoiding the tough scar tissue
gelatinous weak spots
and old fishing line overgrown with bloody muscle.
A pinch, a push, a pull.
No way to tell if the gusher
is a rip
or a valve.
Only that it's now closed.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Anxious
Thank you
for holding my hand
when I passed beneath the spider’s web
I know it must have seemed ridiculous to you:
Me, streaked in blood and war paint
passing my spear to the other hand
to grasp your fingers with my right
I know you must have thought my booted heel
would have annihilated its small life
or, at least, the bull whip
would have removed the feeble threat from a distance
But the soles of my steel-toes have holes in them these days
and my arms won’t rotate that well this week
after stacking up all those
eviscerated corpses of
embarrassments
disappointments
and failures
into that pile
to scare off invaders
I know it was silly
and that the tiny, chitinous beast’s fangs couldn’t pierce my mail
let alone the armor
But while your right hand was hiding an indulgent smile,
your left hand was in mine
when I passed beneath the squinching tangle of twitching, too-jointed legs
and stayed there until I was out of their elongated reach
So
I’m off
to wherever that horn is sounding from
to kill whatever that thing screaming is
Thanks again
You’re the best
For Steph. She knows what she did. I think.
for holding my hand
when I passed beneath the spider’s web
I know it must have seemed ridiculous to you:
Me, streaked in blood and war paint
passing my spear to the other hand
to grasp your fingers with my right
I know you must have thought my booted heel
would have annihilated its small life
or, at least, the bull whip
would have removed the feeble threat from a distance
But the soles of my steel-toes have holes in them these days
and my arms won’t rotate that well this week
after stacking up all those
eviscerated corpses of
embarrassments
disappointments
and failures
into that pile
to scare off invaders
I know it was silly
and that the tiny, chitinous beast’s fangs couldn’t pierce my mail
let alone the armor
But while your right hand was hiding an indulgent smile,
your left hand was in mine
when I passed beneath the squinching tangle of twitching, too-jointed legs
and stayed there until I was out of their elongated reach
So
I’m off
to wherever that horn is sounding from
to kill whatever that thing screaming is
Thanks again
You’re the best
For Steph. She knows what she did. I think.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Traveling South
The food spooned into the bowl looks appetizing to an empty stomach, even if the first glance suggests something is amiss. Broth, rice, chunks of various meats, and what looks like skinned potato--filling and nutritious. The taste is unplaceable.
"What is this we're eating?" asks the leader of the expedition.
"El corazon," says the elderly woman who owns the ranch.
"Heart," I say, and chew more cautiously. I had seen them removing the organs from the large, skinless mass of flesh out back that had once been a cow. How very American of me to think they tossed them away. How very wasteful of a life.
"And what's the other type of meat?" the leader asks. As the only two at the table not from South America, I recognize the guarded look of surprise he wears for the meal.
Our hosts try to sound out the word in English, but their mouths fumble over too many vowels. Someone produces a dictionary with English translations, and and our leader reviews the entry to which the ranch owners insistently point.
"Courage?" he says, perplexed. "That's an idea. You can't eat that."
One of the word smiths frowns and reviews more words in the book. "You know, where is the place where beelay is kept?"
"Bee-lay," I say, turning the word over and thinking about vowels. "Bee--Bile? Oh, you mean the gallbladder."
"Gall," says the leader. "Ah, yes. Like in, 'You got a lot of gall.' You've got a lot of courage. I get it."
I look down at my plate. I guess it wasn't potato after all.
I grab a piece of bread and study my dish more carefully. The dark burgundy meat must be the heart; it is firm between the teeth and feels like regular beef as I chew. The only tell is the increased taste of iron. I grind my teeth and decide this must have been a strong heart, full of hope and strength.
The gall bladder is another story. It is yielding in texture and quickly turns mealy in my mouth. It's strange taste reminds me of the terrible, grisly pates that the wealthy eat, as if the dregs of an animal could be refashioned as a status symbol.
It takes everything, every scrap of will I can drag from the corners of my exhausted body to suppress my gag reflex as I chew and swallow the mushy, wrong-tasting organ. Sips of water only spread the flavor instead of washing it away. Only alternating bites of heart with the rest of the meal allows me to finish the bowl, consume enough nutrition to keep me fit to work, and avoid insulting our hosts.
It is a time before I realize I was concentrating so hard on just eating that the conversation has moved on around me.
"Plans have changed," the expedition leader was saying to me. "We're needed in the city to finish obtaining some clearance papers. You can stay here and do some field work on your own for a couple of days."
"Where will I stay?" I ask, wary of how this will play out. I already have the data I needed for the project for which I'd prepared, but I suppose he doesn't want me hanging around reading a novel and base camp for the rest of the week. Problem is, I can't drive the field truck. How will I get to this ranch every day?
"We'll arrange for you to stay in the empty house on the hill," the expedition leader said. "They're remodeling it."
The house on the hill was the family home at the turn of the century. The son of the woman who cooked us hearts is remodeling it to be as it was 100 years ago. It is a beautiful relic, filled with antique furniture, history, love, and ghosts...but no heat or electricity. Nothing against the dark night of a foreign land except what I carry with me.
"All you'll need is a flashlight," says the leader absently, staring at his bowl.
I nod, and take another bite of courage.
____
This is all true. I wrote this on the back of my Argentinian flight itinerary while sitting at the creaky kitchen table of the 'house on the hill' the day it happened. True fax.
"What is this we're eating?" asks the leader of the expedition.
"El corazon," says the elderly woman who owns the ranch.
"Heart," I say, and chew more cautiously. I had seen them removing the organs from the large, skinless mass of flesh out back that had once been a cow. How very American of me to think they tossed them away. How very wasteful of a life.
"And what's the other type of meat?" the leader asks. As the only two at the table not from South America, I recognize the guarded look of surprise he wears for the meal.
Our hosts try to sound out the word in English, but their mouths fumble over too many vowels. Someone produces a dictionary with English translations, and and our leader reviews the entry to which the ranch owners insistently point.
"Courage?" he says, perplexed. "That's an idea. You can't eat that."
One of the word smiths frowns and reviews more words in the book. "You know, where is the place where beelay is kept?"
"Bee-lay," I say, turning the word over and thinking about vowels. "Bee--Bile? Oh, you mean the gallbladder."
"Gall," says the leader. "Ah, yes. Like in, 'You got a lot of gall.' You've got a lot of courage. I get it."
I look down at my plate. I guess it wasn't potato after all.
I grab a piece of bread and study my dish more carefully. The dark burgundy meat must be the heart; it is firm between the teeth and feels like regular beef as I chew. The only tell is the increased taste of iron. I grind my teeth and decide this must have been a strong heart, full of hope and strength.
The gall bladder is another story. It is yielding in texture and quickly turns mealy in my mouth. It's strange taste reminds me of the terrible, grisly pates that the wealthy eat, as if the dregs of an animal could be refashioned as a status symbol.
It takes everything, every scrap of will I can drag from the corners of my exhausted body to suppress my gag reflex as I chew and swallow the mushy, wrong-tasting organ. Sips of water only spread the flavor instead of washing it away. Only alternating bites of heart with the rest of the meal allows me to finish the bowl, consume enough nutrition to keep me fit to work, and avoid insulting our hosts.
It is a time before I realize I was concentrating so hard on just eating that the conversation has moved on around me.
"Plans have changed," the expedition leader was saying to me. "We're needed in the city to finish obtaining some clearance papers. You can stay here and do some field work on your own for a couple of days."
"Where will I stay?" I ask, wary of how this will play out. I already have the data I needed for the project for which I'd prepared, but I suppose he doesn't want me hanging around reading a novel and base camp for the rest of the week. Problem is, I can't drive the field truck. How will I get to this ranch every day?
"We'll arrange for you to stay in the empty house on the hill," the expedition leader said. "They're remodeling it."
The house on the hill was the family home at the turn of the century. The son of the woman who cooked us hearts is remodeling it to be as it was 100 years ago. It is a beautiful relic, filled with antique furniture, history, love, and ghosts...but no heat or electricity. Nothing against the dark night of a foreign land except what I carry with me.
"All you'll need is a flashlight," says the leader absently, staring at his bowl.
I nod, and take another bite of courage.
____
This is all true. I wrote this on the back of my Argentinian flight itinerary while sitting at the creaky kitchen table of the 'house on the hill' the day it happened. True fax.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
August 27th, 2010
1. The lizard's skin peels away from it's flesh only grudgingly. Not like taking a mammal hide--a few cuts and a strong pull. Every inch of scaley skin must be teased apart with a scalpel blade, and while joints are rounded with incisions and muscles are revealed, the animal is thawing. Thin, watered down blood trickles out of the exposed flesh slowly, and as she turns the animal this way and that (looking for the easiest cut) the fluid smears and soaks the sleeves of her lab coat.
Hours and a skinned iguana later, she takes off the coat. Like so many other things in her life, she seals it in a plastic bag, intending to wash it later, knowing the smell will only get worse with time.
___________________________
2. The desks and bookshelves are all rearranged, changed to make room for more. The filing cabinets stubbornly lock themselves, knowing none of the students have The Key.
Hours and several broken pieces of metal reaffirms what she already knew: Brute force *will* get results. The desirability of the results, however, are to be debated.
___________________________
3. The vaulted ceilings of the train station echo the sounds of humanity. She eats her humus and carrots (wishing they were fries) and watches Man With Flowers, Hot Asian Guy, and Walks Funny Woman proceed to their destinations (which they can because they didn't miss *their* trains). A man sets a bag down on the bench and pulls out a clarinet. He plays a scant minute of notes at her (at *her* for certain, as he is directly before her and none else are on the bench), then puts the instrument away and leaves the station.
An hour of waiting on a train and a $25 dollar donation to the ACLU later, she thinks the man might be right; maybe she needs more music in her life.
Hours and a skinned iguana later, she takes off the coat. Like so many other things in her life, she seals it in a plastic bag, intending to wash it later, knowing the smell will only get worse with time.
___________________________
2. The desks and bookshelves are all rearranged, changed to make room for more. The filing cabinets stubbornly lock themselves, knowing none of the students have The Key.
Hours and several broken pieces of metal reaffirms what she already knew: Brute force *will* get results. The desirability of the results, however, are to be debated.
___________________________
3. The vaulted ceilings of the train station echo the sounds of humanity. She eats her humus and carrots (wishing they were fries) and watches Man With Flowers, Hot Asian Guy, and Walks Funny Woman proceed to their destinations (which they can because they didn't miss *their* trains). A man sets a bag down on the bench and pulls out a clarinet. He plays a scant minute of notes at her (at *her* for certain, as he is directly before her and none else are on the bench), then puts the instrument away and leaves the station.
An hour of waiting on a train and a $25 dollar donation to the ACLU later, she thinks the man might be right; maybe she needs more music in her life.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Angles
The time and place are different.
Everything shifts, adjusts
but her body does not,
cannot conform
to the bends and angles of the sofa,
the recliner,
the floor.
Everything is knots and tangles.
Hair, clothes, blankets
muscle and sinew
bunching together
and pulling apart
exactly how they shouldn't.
She had not considered
that rolling stones
might only keep moving
because they cannot sleep.
Everything shifts, adjusts
but her body does not,
cannot conform
to the bends and angles of the sofa,
the recliner,
the floor.
Everything is knots and tangles.
Hair, clothes, blankets
muscle and sinew
bunching together
and pulling apart
exactly how they shouldn't.
She had not considered
that rolling stones
might only keep moving
because they cannot sleep.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Ghost of Journal Entries Past
This past week I helped lead a paleontology field Program with Project Exploration, which, as most of you know from my years there as both student and staff, is a non-profit that runs top-quality science enrichment programs for CPS students. Before the program, I was looking for a journal with enough space in it to take admin notes in, like I did when leading the JP program.
What I came across was my journal entries from the last year I led the Junior Paleontologists (JPs) to South Dakota. PE field students read and write journal entries everyday, and so do the leaders. On the last night, after three weeks of academic, physical, mental, and emotional challenges, the topic is always "What does it mean to be a JP?"
This is what I wrote and read to 14 JPs my last year full-time with PE in 2008, grouped together on the side of a mountain as the sun set. I was the last to read.
Her page is a bunch of scrawled notes and crossed-out words. Every time she begins, a new thought, a new idea pushes its way in, and she must jot it down before it falls out her ear and down the mountain.
She has written this story 5 times in the past. First in 2001, when she was young and shocked at the immensity of the world. Again in 2004, her first year as a leader. In 2005 her mentor was leaving. In 2006 she took charge in her head; in 2007 she took charge in her heart.
Now it is 2008, and instead of having said everything before, there is too much yet to say. Too many memories of discovery, too many astounded faces, too many students she is so dearly proud of to sum it up in a few poorly written words.
And yet, this does not worry her, because if she has learned 1 thing it is that there is no time limit on your membership. She has, now and forever, her whole life to discover, learn, grow, and share that with all around her. There is no need to sum it up, dumb it down, or explain it, because those who get it surely use it, those who give it truly love it, and those who have it hopefully know it.*
A wise student once said "Being a JP is for you to discover it's meaning." It is the thrill of the chase, the hunt with your pack. It's to bite at the moon and grab at the stars, bend the mountain to your will and make the earth yield its many mysteries to you. It's to remember your past and create your future.
I have given you a tool for life, as it was given to me. Use it everyday.
Once a JP, always a JP.
*This refers to a puzzle I gave them earlier in the program. "Those who sell it do not need it. Those who buy it do not use it. Those who use it do not know it. What is it?"
What I came across was my journal entries from the last year I led the Junior Paleontologists (JPs) to South Dakota. PE field students read and write journal entries everyday, and so do the leaders. On the last night, after three weeks of academic, physical, mental, and emotional challenges, the topic is always "What does it mean to be a JP?"
This is what I wrote and read to 14 JPs my last year full-time with PE in 2008, grouped together on the side of a mountain as the sun set. I was the last to read.
Her page is a bunch of scrawled notes and crossed-out words. Every time she begins, a new thought, a new idea pushes its way in, and she must jot it down before it falls out her ear and down the mountain.
She has written this story 5 times in the past. First in 2001, when she was young and shocked at the immensity of the world. Again in 2004, her first year as a leader. In 2005 her mentor was leaving. In 2006 she took charge in her head; in 2007 she took charge in her heart.
Now it is 2008, and instead of having said everything before, there is too much yet to say. Too many memories of discovery, too many astounded faces, too many students she is so dearly proud of to sum it up in a few poorly written words.
And yet, this does not worry her, because if she has learned 1 thing it is that there is no time limit on your membership. She has, now and forever, her whole life to discover, learn, grow, and share that with all around her. There is no need to sum it up, dumb it down, or explain it, because those who get it surely use it, those who give it truly love it, and those who have it hopefully know it.*
A wise student once said "Being a JP is for you to discover it's meaning." It is the thrill of the chase, the hunt with your pack. It's to bite at the moon and grab at the stars, bend the mountain to your will and make the earth yield its many mysteries to you. It's to remember your past and create your future.
I have given you a tool for life, as it was given to me. Use it everyday.
Once a JP, always a JP.
*This refers to a puzzle I gave them earlier in the program. "Those who sell it do not need it. Those who buy it do not use it. Those who use it do not know it. What is it?"
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Arrhythmia
Just because I do not share the abject anguish
I see pressed into your features
does not mean I do not understand it.
I am cognizant that your heart is breaking.
Do not think that my adamant bearing
indicates a cavity in my chest.
My own bruised heart is there
still beating after being sewn and re-sewn with catgut and spider silk.
And though it flutters in sympathy under layers and layers of tempered steel,
the tattoo of this arrhythmia will not confuse my sense of reality
any more than your miserable tears can wash it away.
The situation is wrong.
No matter what angle it is seen from,
no matter how the words are strung together,
no matter what the painful quivering of anyone’s heart might wish,
the weight of reality is a dead albatross
hanging heavy on the rope.
If there should come a time when the storm breaks,
and the last vestiges of this glass dream
lay around your feet in glittering shards,
I will be here,
hands and boots planted firmly on the icy earth
and steel across my shoulders.
And if you should call the banners to arms
from across the distance of this mistake
I will be there,
my thread-bare heart animated in time
with the thunderous pounding of a war drum.
Until then
my hands are empty,
my feet still,
my heart silent.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Good News, Everyone!
I know some of you out there might find this surprising, but I am a loud person with lots of loud opinions. No, I know you're shocked, but it's true. And it's also true that my career in science has enabled me to form these opinions through the scientific process of observing empirical evidence, analyzing it, and coming to rational, well-supported conclusions.
I just so happens that throughout the day, I encounter situations that cause my irritable-opinion-syndrome (IOS) to flare up, and to deal with this problem my gastro-cardio-neruologist suggested the homeopathic medicine of sharing these opinions with others. I told him that homeopathic medicine was bunk, and fired his ass. But still, telling people about the stupid shit I done heard on the internet, TV, or elevator that day seemed like an amusing past time. Problem is, I found myself having the same conversations over and over, since all my loved ones are flung all over the country--much as if I put them in some enormous trebuchet while I was asleep--and I can never speak to them all at once.
So that's why I've traversed into this weird-feeling blog territory, where I can put my ideas out there for all my peeps to read, if they care to. And then when you see me coming you'll know what the score is on immigration laws, or twilight, or faux feminism, or scientology, and take the opportunity to get away should the getting be good. I'll also be posting some creative writing on here, in some sort of unholy hybridization of blog space. It may or may not turn out that my creative energies are not just limited to pert opinions.
Although I will continue to do this even if no one reads it, I encourage you to comment and turn these ravings into discussions, even if and especially when you disagree. Arguing at people is never as fun as arguing with people. Also, feel free to share thoughts and critiques on the creative stuff too, especially since I know a lot of straight-up, college educated writers out there who are, in fact, the shit.
Transmission out!
-E
I just so happens that throughout the day, I encounter situations that cause my irritable-opinion-syndrome (IOS) to flare up, and to deal with this problem my gastro-cardio-neruologist suggested the homeopathic medicine of sharing these opinions with others. I told him that homeopathic medicine was bunk, and fired his ass. But still, telling people about the stupid shit I done heard on the internet, TV, or elevator that day seemed like an amusing past time. Problem is, I found myself having the same conversations over and over, since all my loved ones are flung all over the country--much as if I put them in some enormous trebuchet while I was asleep--and I can never speak to them all at once.
So that's why I've traversed into this weird-feeling blog territory, where I can put my ideas out there for all my peeps to read, if they care to. And then when you see me coming you'll know what the score is on immigration laws, or twilight, or faux feminism, or scientology, and take the opportunity to get away should the getting be good. I'll also be posting some creative writing on here, in some sort of unholy hybridization of blog space. It may or may not turn out that my creative energies are not just limited to pert opinions.
Although I will continue to do this even if no one reads it, I encourage you to comment and turn these ravings into discussions, even if and especially when you disagree. Arguing at people is never as fun as arguing with people. Also, feel free to share thoughts and critiques on the creative stuff too, especially since I know a lot of straight-up, college educated writers out there who are, in fact, the shit.
Transmission out!
-E
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)