From a secret project, different version

When you are in, you are in love with everything and everyone responds in kind. I have played to crowds of millions. In person, on the airwaves, you have thought about me at night. You have been entered from behind and scuffed your kneecaps on a carpet. I am the lit-up dashboard of your potential boyfriend’s car. I am a tight T-shirt. I am just-washed hair. I am the smell of your own sex coming to greet you after a trip downtown. I am the taxi cab you let someone else get into. I am a strawberry milkshake. You think I wouldn’t be as good as chocolate, but I am.

The other day, I played a benefit concert for the Pine Creek Fire department because a lot of houses were lost recently in a fire in my town. I didn’t have my voice back so I played guitar with a country rock band who has one Grammy to my seven. I’m not saying anything about it, I know. I understand. It’s a senseless metaphor, a singer songwriter who can’t sing. But I saw you in the front row and I want to tell you publicly that your stupid needles pierced my heart.

From a secret project

There was a time when I was beautiful. I did not move, I shined. I didn’t need food and sleep, hardly. I had electric eyes.

There was a time when I was everywhere—I mean it, divine. I was in your airspace. Your television. I was on your mind.

I was the rug that burned against your kneecaps when you let him fuck you from behind.

I was the smell of your own sex coming to greet you.

I was your first lie.

You are going to tell me that my time is over; that my music is irrelevant; that I’m out of touch; mistuned. The time has come for me to admit some things to you about the differences between how I used to see the world and how I see it now. I am going to tell you that for a long time, I ordered strawberry milkshakes when I really wanted chocolate. All of my life, I wanted to be interesting, and for many years, I was. And despite my vocal problems and my personal catastrophes, I was feeling even more interesting and I was feeling very strong, and I was feeling vulnerable and sensitive and aware and full of grace, and then I took the stage at the Pine Creek Fire Department benefit I organized for the lost homes in my new Montana town, and I saw you with your knitting needles, and your needles pierced my heart.

From an entry in progress for Emily Spivack's "Worn Stories"

My father’s vintage Ralph Lauren cardigan is age-stained and moth-nibbled, the cuffs are all stretched out. Although I don’t have any memories of him ever actually wearing it, it certainly corresponds to the type of man that he was then. In the early eighties, he had great hair and a mustache—a long-legged, rare-steak eating, tennis playing man who belonged to clubs with letter-pressed stationary in royal blue and cream. He always gave me a sip of wine at dinner, but would tell me to smell the bouquet first. This will give you the impression that my dad is cultured, snobbish. He isn’t. He pushed the wine across the table to me to piss my mother off.

From "Tropical Storm"

Something here about the happy times. Who wants to hear about my mother’s drinking? Would you like to know instead that I once had a horse? My parents let me name it and I named her Fantasy. I feel no embarrassment about this, oddly.

From "Tropical Storm"

            Every time we come down from Massachusetts for a visit, I think that if I can stay cheerful, the visit will be different. As long as we have fun during the daytime, I will be okay. That when five o’clock comes and my mother loads her wineglass full of ice and vodka, I will think: today I touched a porpoise! I went for a bike ride! I had shrimp on a bamboo skewer! And I will look the other way.

From "Tropical Storm"

She knocks out four pins on her first roll, none on her second. I pick up my pink bowling ball and feel a certain amount of pressure. To our left, the lanes are filled with small gentlemen in collared shirts and khaki shorts. Their shorts feature utility pockets. They’re wearing high socks. Their legs show the weary tendons of a once athletic life, but their bodies are sloped lines now and supple semicircles. Gentle foreheads, many chins, everything moves downwards. Their balls roll slower than our balls, they rotate with intention. They move like manatees up and down their lanes.

From "Airs Above the Ground"

            Everyday with Peter felt like a confirmation that three hearts could make a world.

Their routine followed a pattern that was instantly familiar in that it replicated the daydreams of the life she’d always wanted. After coffee and the ceremonial splitting of the paper into his section, and hers, one of them would ride Belltello while the other mucked the stable. Then, after a weird breakfast of leftovers and fruit and this horrid, Swedish fish paste that Peter pushed through a tube onto whole wheat crackers, Lydia would go to her studio to paint, taking breaks at the window to watch Belltello and her lover—what other word was there for it?—dance.

From "Tropical Storm," an essay in progress.

            We watch the mechanical teeth send all the pins back to the same place. We wait for the ball return to give me back my ball.

Cut from "Airs Above the Ground"

Lydia settled on a scrapbook, scissors, three packets of stickers, glue and a rubber stamp all neatly enclosed inside an attractive plastic container. She hoped that the recipient of her “DreamMaker Set” would be happy, but they probably would not be. The guardian at the children’s center would probably remove the scissors, rendering the gift useless. What kind of person would give scissors to a child?

            The type of person who didn’t have children, obviously. The type of person who believed that severence was the most important step in art. It wasn’t until she finally admitted to herself that she wasn’t any good as a rider that she discovered photography, and painting. She’d felt whole again, less nervous. She’d felt in control.

            She paid for the DreamMaker Set (forty-seven dollars. She would have preferred to donate cash) and walked across the parking lot with her brazen pastel gift bag. Control. Control was something she’d been robbed of. And she didn’t see a future in which she got it back.

            In the car, Lydia fingered the gold tassell hanging from the pendant around her neck. She’d put on a pair of black wool trousers for the party, an eggplant blouse made of glossy silk, black heels. The heels were patent leather, shameful. This outfit wasn’t her. Several months ago, she wouldn’t even have been able to have worn it in her car. The upholstery would have been (matted with) horse hair, stray pieces of hay, dusty horse blankets thrown in the back seat and crumbled leaves on the (foot carpets), dead flies on the dashboard. Everything was nice now. Clean smelling. Hoovered. She could go to fancy parties now, all dressed in black.

            Lydia gathered herself. Ran her hand down her pant leg, seeking stray hairs. Thirteen years of dressage training had prepared her to be a mourner. Takt:

rhythm and regularity: you keep working, you show up when expected, once a month, you call your mother, you say yes to parties. Versammlung: straightness and collection: you keep your hair clean, you listen to talk radio while you eat your dinner to make up for the absence of that other voice, you put a hot water bottle on his side of the bed. On social days, you force yourself to reach for the mascara and the broken cake of blusher, and once a month, usually after speaking to your mother, you take a bath with water that is too hot and in this too hot water, you cry in the tub.

Cut from "Airs Above the Ground"

            Lydia reached out for Judith’s hand and squeezed it. Judith looked at Lydia with surprised eyes and squeezed her back. For a moment, Lydia considered whether or not this was all that it would take: a parade of loving gestures. A smile here, a laugh there, and in a little while, her friends would think her happy, or happier at least. Lydia put her hand back into her lap.

            The children began singing their carol. Their were voices gossamer-thin and waning. Lydia worried that they might not make it through the song.

Away in a manger no crib for a bed, the little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head. At what age did a head cease being sweet? Or did it depend on size? Belltello had had the kindest face in the world, but his head was too big to be sweet. He'd had an enormous, gray head, soft and alert and smelling of hay. You could lose your heart staring into his big eyes.

            “There she is,” said Judith, nodding in the direction of her daughter who was somehow, remarkably, already on her way up to the table with her lantern. The first grade had come and gone while Lydia was stuck on Bell’s head.

            “She looks beautiful,” cooed Lydia, because it was true. Josie was a beautiful girl with a beautiful, happy mother. Lydia would have hated Judith if she didn’t love her to death.

            I never wanted to be a mother, thought Lydia, staring at her friend. At least she’d never suffer for this particular decision. She would have been terrible at it. Lydia did well with animals because they accepted love in actions. You kept them clean, fed and exercised, reassured them with a caress. This is all that they expected. This was enough. But children. Children with their need for nipples, nighlights, healthy snacks and birthday parties, footwear, hand-written-notes in lunchboxes, and they drank so much juice. They needed you materially, physically, intellectually—and as a woman, they came out of your body, so they needed you sexually, as well. Lydia owed a lot to women like Judith. It was because of women like Judith that she got to be herself.

            Up on stage, the piano player began plucking out the opening notes of “O Tannenbaum” for the second graders. It was a disquieting song, really. The opening notes were staccato and brisk, but the melody was top heavy, dragging. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, how loyal are your nee-dles. The little choralers squirmed under the ancient lyrics of their too-slow song. Lydia knew what it felt like to be those children, caught in the visceral clench of something you weren’t very good at, but were forced to do because it was charming and expected, because you had been asked. She’d been a rider before she’d been a painter, but she hadn’t been a good one. Her father had been a competitve rider, and his father before him. She’d never even been asked.

            One of the little girls in the front row kept twisting at her pinafore, crisscrossing her right leg across her left one, singing to the gymnasium floor instead of to the candles. Next to her, Judith’s girl was head-high with Christmas spirit. Lydia watched the embarassed one soothe herself with fidgets. Her heart sped. There’d been plenty of times that Lydia had wanted out of the ring, too.

From a screenplay I'm working on, called "Bob and the Trees"

                        FEMALE DINER

                       

                        Picking at the dish with her fork.

                                    Is this…Bill, does this looks cooked to you?

            Her husband, (BILL) inspects the dish.

                                                            FEMALE DINER (to BETH)

                                    Is this cooked enough?

                                                            BETH

                                    It’s very good. Delicious. Organic rosemary chicken over cheddar                                 grits—and there you have a roasted kale salad with pinenuts.                           Can I get you more wine?

                                                            FEMALE

                                    I don’t know, do you want more wine?

                                                            BILL

                                    (Shrugs.) I don’t care. If you do.

                                                            BETH

                                    Another round? (She picks up their wine glasses)

            The FEMALE DINER and BILL bristle at the word “round.” They lean in and whisper to each other when BETH walks away.

From a book I'm working on

DAD, I HAVE TO GO SOON, I write. TRAFFIC.

            He nods his head as if he knows about the traffic. But he hasn’t driven in years.

            YOU WANT TO GO TO THE BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL SOON? I write. He loves their Waldorf Salad.

            MAYBE, he responds. TRAFFIC. My dad can’t stand the clog-ups and the show-offs and the valet parking, but he really likes that salad.

            OR I’LL GET IT CATERED, I write. IS THAT BETTER? WE CAN EAT IT ON THE ROOF. I wait a couple of seconds. Write, I’m GONNA PUT YOUR PASTRAMI S.WICH IN THE FRIDGE, OK? I add, DON’T FORGET ABOUT IT.

            OK, he writes. I WON’T.

From a "Celebrity Book Review" in progress

Towards the end of the book, things got kind of gloomy, but the kind of gloomy I can handle, like when Chris is away on tour and the VitaMix is on the blink, or I stain my favorite navy and cream striped Breton top with red wine. “Face up, spacegirl, you’re lonely,” writes Melissa Broder. “You’ve not been felt in centuries.” Thanks to the best masseuse in the nation (see my Goop post, under “Be”), I don’t have that problem, but still, Broder’s on to something with culinary matrimony. This part is from a poem called “Steak Night,” which I totally relate to because although Apple came to veganism on her own, I can’t get the men in my family to see the veggie light:

From a "Celebrity Book Review" in progress

Check out this stanza from “Ahoy” and then try to tell me that Melissa’s not my sister in the culinary sense of the term: “I am relieved to discover my favorite gourmet yogurt with full nutrition labeling.” And only a few lines later:  “God loves my hair.” Except for the fact that I prefer the British spelling of yogurt (i.e., ‘yoghurt’), these lines are so me.

From a "Celebrity Book Review" in progress

Another reason I really enjoyed “Meat Heart” is because I recognized the markings of a fellow rebel in disguise. In between a lot of naughty poems about religion, I found this diamond, from “Fugazi Shame.” “I cannot blame my parents no punk boyfriend delivered the perfect mixtapes.” I always wanted a punk boyfriend, too, Melissa! That’s why I wore so much eyeliner back at Spence!

From "Willy Wonka and the Healthy Fun Palace"

2.2 Services

In addition to the creation of healthy sweets, candies and alternative retreats, the Healthy Fun Palace will feature a nudist park, bowling alley (with edible balls and pins), and therapeutic horse ranch. An on-site cafeteria will serve a scrumptious array of hot and cold carob beverages along with baked goods. If you agree with my suggestion in Section 1.5, (“Geographical Considerations”), then an additional activity will be: swimming.

From "Notes from Mexico"

When I was a little girl I was obsessed with tree climbing. I thought if I climbed to the top of a tree I could get a tree to talk. There was one tree in my parents yard, this one was my favorite. When my parents got divorced and we moved out of the house, I perched my favorite Christmas ornament on one of its branches. This ornament was a lifelike bird with feathers. It had claws made out of wire. I hope I wrapped it tight enough. I would like to think that the bird is still there, but isn’t it terrible what happens in the weather.

From "The Night Watch"

Antonia listened to the birds being birdy while she waited for Marina to bring her a fresh drink. The men were somewhere inside the house together, festering. Ils lui manquaient. They were missed by her.
“I added a slice of orange,” Marina emerged through the patio doors, all brightness, with a tray.

-----

Marina’s husband, Robert, stumbled out to join them, trumpeting news of an even later dinner: the chicken was tremendously—irrevocably—burned.

-----

The pharmacy they favored was just two blocks down the street, but Antonia walked the two blocks slowly, taking in the melancholy quality of light, the way it pushed through the trees to illuminate a spot of otherwise unremarkable pavement. Gritty fissures. Moss-filled cracks.

From "The Night Watch"

Dixon swiveled slightly to look her in the eyes. “This won’t be easy, I imagine. For a man like Nigel.”
The name sent a shock down her shoulders.
“We were joking once, about our students,” he added, sensing her surprise. “How there were all these Finleys, and Quinns. But not so many Nigels. You know. And then he said.”
Her heart thumped inside her. These men, these intellectuals, suited, pressed and groomed—just when she was bored to bits by them, there’d be this surprise. The fact that Dixon knew this secret about her husband unreasonably enraged her. She was filled with the desire to rush home and grab Grey’s balls.