That Day When We Went to the MET

I distinctly remember that day when we went to the MET. I was wearing the red strapless dress that I thought was flattering at the time. The one that looked like a rug with its vaguely paisley, somewhat floral pattern. I remember because I had volunteered to teach a kindergarten class in the Bronx for a day, and one of the little girls in the class grabbed the fabric just below my hip and gave it a firm tug, nearly pulling my (almost unfortunately) strapless dress down a lot lower than I was prepared to handle. “I really like your dress!” I remember that I had been in kindergarten that day because as I started to come up on whatever the fuck you put in those pill casings, I was thinking about how fucked up it was that I had spent all day teaching kindergarteners about saving money and family values, and now I was sitting on a park bench with you grinning, as we watched tree bark shift and wiggle along its trunk. For me this was new. For you this was familiar. I couldn’t negotiate that.

We took the pills at the MET because it was air-conditioned and we would wait a while to start coming up. We sat in the open room with the Egyptian temple in the middle, surrounded by wishing fountains. I love that room because it feels both foreign and familiar. It happened slowly. Slow enough to forget what I had swallowed, but you wouldn't forget. “Do my pupils look dilated?” You kept yourself busy, checking the time every few minutes, trying to gauge your physicality in your reflection on a tiny cell phone screen. I sat still.  

It started and we got up. We went outside and walked across Central Park at a pace that was brisk; refreshing but uncontrollable. It wasn’t a whopping 96 and humid anymore; it was perfect outside. We had energy in our bones and a mutual understanding that the city was ours now. We also had nowhere to go. So we headed to your house on 78^th Street. Your grand, lonely-looking apartment that I had visited on multiple occasions. No one was home but your parakeet was calling out from its cage in the kitchen, “Don’t forget about me!” We ended up on your couch, watching White Chicks on TV.

Your mom came home fifteen minutes later… half an hour later?… an hour later? I remember she started talking to you and you were eager to answer. I thought about the other times I had been there and you had ignored her completely, or she had ignored you. It was hard to tell. I started to talk and got self-conscious in the middle of a sentence. I was worried she would be able to tell that our conversation was bridging two very different worlds. You were so calm though, I don’t think she noticed. Now I wish that she had. I wish she had screamed at us and kicked me out of her house. But she just turned and walked into the kitchen.

You got us up abruptly and we took to the streets again. We headed uptown towards my house even though I didn’t want us to be there. If I had been alone, I would have moseyed up the street and stayed out until the sun set and the air cooled down, allowing the heat trapped in the sidewalks to rise up all around me.  But you were never one for strolling so we sped up to the taco place between 107^th and 108^th and Amsterdam. We sat at a tiny table for two and ordered guacamole and chips. We may have sat there for an hour relishing in the refreshing mixture of avocado, onions, and hot peppers.

I don't know where you went after that. I was ready to be alone, I remember that. It was nothing personal, it was just that I needed to sit for a while and appreciate whatever feeling was pulsing through me and the rest of the city and I knew that we were incompatible sometimes (probably most of the time). Wanting to be alone is a strange feeling because it feels like it should be sad when it may not be. But I suppose that wanting to be alone is only sad when there is no other option. And I might not have wanted to part ways so soon if you hadn’t been so lonely. 

"Thursdays with Katie Herman" (excerpt)

Yohana stood square in the doorway, solidly planted to the ground by her large bare feet-the sight of which forced our noses into a defensive curl before the stench even reached our nostrils. We were Isaac’s fourth grade class, shoeless and standing in the hallway in a silent straight line, and it was time for Dalcroze.

We slowly filed into the room, each of us dully dangling a soprano recorder in all of its beige plasticky glory. I held mine loosely between the very tips of my pointer and thumb and silently willed someone to bump into my hand and cause it to slip and crash onto the floor; chipping and cracking it just enough to render it useless and sparing me the discomfort of sitting with my stomach in knots as I waited and desperately hoped not to be called upon to play “Hot Cross Buns” for the entire class.

We all took a seat in a circle on the scuffed-up hardwood floor and placed our recorders gently down in front of us. We sat with our eyes closed at first, “centering ourselves”. Goosebumps slowly popped up on my bare forearms and I could feel the hairs stand up straight and lean longingly towards the warm hallway outside. Yohana never turned on the radiator. Concentrating hard, I tried to mentally block out the cold and after a few minutes, just as my goose bumps had finally eased back down, she had somehow silently stood up. Immediately, a complex clapping pattern erupted above our heads as she skipped around the circle screaming in her heavy Russian accent, “Saltate! Everyone saltate!”

One by one we slowly rose to our feet and began to half skip/half leap behind her hopelessly trying to imitate her surprisingly fluid movement. We went around and around in a circle, until she abruptly stopped at her original spot with recorder in hand. Each of us nervously bent down and lifted our recorders from the floor, being sure to watch our fellow classmates and take on a slightly slower rising pace, so as not to be the first one fully standing ready to be called on to play. But someone always had to be the first and it didn’t really matter who looked ready because she was an on-the-spot kind of woman.

All eyes were peeled on her veiny right index finger as it circled above her head, ready to ruin some poor kid’s day. It swirled and twirled and came thundering down like the hand of God upon us. My eyes instinctively closed for a second and when they had opened I found myself staring straight at that veiny finger, and the whole class was staring straight at me. My hands shook as I drew the recorder to my mouth. I took in a shallow, futile breath and slowly I began to play. 

A Poem.

The city felt empty days ago

I push through every demographic

-- all clad in black.

New Yorkers trudge through the slush

like a swarm of flies

zig-zagging,

hurtling forward in

near-misses.

I smile at everyone

and no one

in particular.

Disguised in my dark pea coat,

I am a Monarch in fly's clothes.

I am glowing,

unnoticed

like a nightlight in an empty bedroom.

She is finally mine

and she will have me too

and it's the scariest kind of relief

to be mutually in love.

Yávos

Yávos.

Sunlight captured in a jar of honey

refractions crafting

drops of gold

perfectly browned toast,

Holla at that challah!

French toast

melts in your mouth

and takes your mind with it

for a minute.

Mango coladas take me back

to umbrella toothpicks,

ordering Shirley Temples with a wink

and a plain slice with

"extra cheese, please!"

This is childish sophistication

summed up in unexplained foodie quirks.

Initial contact.

Cream swirls in rich coffee

like waves of molten chocolate.

Decadence in color,

delight in sensation.

Strawberries at their peak in the summer sun

a berry-picking smorgasbord

for kids with juice-stained hands.

Milk moustaches,

grapefruit splatters,

peanut butter and jelly with the

crusts cut off

the middle slice of the banana bread

the center brownie

Striving for high living--

treat yourself to it.

I once flew down the street

I once flew down the street. I was on my way to preschool with my mom and my little brother and it was a warm but gray, calm but windy morning. We descended a steep hill down towards Riverside Park, when suddenly the wind picked up. This was no ordinary wind—I could feel it. It approached quietly but suddenly and before I knew it, a canopy of dark clouds loomed over us and violent gusts of wind ushered us down the street like bouncers in a nightclub. Plastic bags and candy wrappers danced and flurried over the sidewalk like a herd of urban tumbleweeds. I gripped my coat tightly inside of my pockets, keeping to myself while my brother held onto my mom’s hand. We slowly walked onward down the hill as the sky howled and grew angrier with each step.

I looked down at the sidewalk which was littered with blackened spots of spat-out chewing gum. There were so many of them there… I wondered which flavors and colors each of them had contained. But before I could begin to contemplate the mouths that had spit those spots out, I felt my body begin to lighten as if I was standing on my tip-toes. My elbows lifted up ever so slightly and I slowly inflated like a balloon preparing to float off, lighter than the sky. And that’s just what I did! A huge gust of wind came barreling down the hill and knocked straight into my back, picking me up from underneath and carrying me down with it towards the bottom of the hill.

Not knowing what else to do, I ran with the air, suspended in an involuntary motion for a few moments until I approached a thick black lamp post. I quickly dislodged my hands from my coat pockets and wrapped my arms around its stable metal body as the wind and I passed by. And I broke free of the wind and twirled around and around the lamp post as my momentum gradually slowed down, until I found myself sitting on the sidewalk with my arms and legs wrapped around it. I sat there for a minute as I waited for my mom and brother. They reached me after a bit and I got up and rejoined the school-bound march. And as we continued to make our way the rest of the way down the hill, I reached out my hand from my coat pocket and slipped it carefully into my mother’s.

Awake

Awake.

The moon is up there

shining right through into my room.

Too bright,

it's glow is the mother of all fluorescent lights.

It's ugly

a pale gray of desolation.

There is no life in it

for it is only aglow with the distant light of the sun.

This ghost will not leave me be.

I check the clock,

five in the morning.

Sirens sound in the streets below me

but they are no longer background noise.

These blares become piercing, alarming

as they should be.

How dulled have I become,

that I hear these alarms,

these announcements of death and despair,

and I can go back to sleep!

or continue to shower

or tune my attention back into the TV

So I lay awake

watching the ceiling grow brighter with the sunrise

The sirens pass into silence

and again I forget to hope

or even wonder

if everything will be okay.

Alliterated

At attention

in amazement

after the attack

is alleviated

all is above, not around

the aforementioned antics.

Blonde buds

bloom barely

bit by bit

before brandishing

the brightest

beautiful blossoms.

Can I catch

catastrophes,

curb chaos,

crunch consequences

of the cold

with only calm considerations?

Don't detract from

their doom,

don't distract

the demons of the day

with a dismal defense

don't delay

daunting darker desires.

Tugging the Line

Balloons are tough to avoid heartbreak with.

You hold a bright orb of color

lighter than the air,

bouncing along above you on the end of a ribbon.

And its company is wonderful,

but there's that constant

tug on the line.

It yearns to float up

beyond your reach.

And you want to let it go,

although you will miss it dearly,

for freedom is all it wants.

You hold that freedom

dangling in your hand.

You let the ribbon slide up

out of your clenched palm.

And the moment it drifts up,

just out of your reach,

regret hits you like

a big yellow cheese bus.

It grows smaller and smaller

you suddenly feel responsible

for all of the trees

it nearly misses

and the gradually thinning atmosphere

pulling its insides

slowly out.

Freedom becomes the impending

pop!

You wonder if you should have

just held on...

Snowglobing

I'm sitting on my windowsill overlooking Central Park, watching the snow just fall and fall and fall. From twelve stories up, if I tilt my head at a slight upward angle, the trees disappear from view and all that's left is a solid white sky with little peppered dots of snowflakes drifting through it. I woke up in a snow globe this morning.

There is no slanted roof or gutters here to catch these little flakes and clump them together into one white mass. Instead, they float right up to my window and dance around. The wind conducts their movement as they fall fast and then rise up again suddenly, slowly suspended in midair. I sit, front row in a one person audience to this wintry ballet.

And it's funny that I've despised the snow for so long, refusing to see it in this light because of its chilling, bitter season. But every flake is really just a lonely raindrop that shivered as it fell from the clouds, becoming frozen in its liquid motion as it drifted down. Like everything else, they are bound by the cold.

And I'm frozen too, sitting by the window watching the stiff beauty of a dead season. But now I see through it; the snow will melt into water again, the trees will bud and paint the world in green again, and I will get up again and look at other things and move to other places. But for now I will drift with the snowflakes until I slowly thaw and melt back into motion.

There Is A Spaniard In My Mother's Bathroom

There is a Spaniard in my mother's bathroom. His face regally gazes out at me from under a wide-brimmed hat in a lower corner of the wall by the door, where the tile has broken off and left the sea green plaster exposed underneath. His chiseled features are formed by marbled wisps of white; the remains of some adhesive that wasn't ready to let go.

His face has always been there, but no one has ever mentioned it. I don't know if anyone else has looked at that broken tile and seen anything more than just that. I will not speak of him. He is my personal portrait and as I sit on the toilet and stare at his face, I wonder; if I broke away all of the white and green tiles that line these walls, what magnificent portrait of some foreign, royal land would be uncovered.

60%

Let me tell you something about flat seltzer: It has more emotion than your normal water. The tap water, it’s got stuff in it, sure, and the bottled water, it’s pristine and all of that. But that flat seltzer is so much more. It’s naked and vulnerable. When all the bubbles are gone, no one wants it. It feels abandoned and useless, like a singer whose voice has been lost. It’s felt joy and it’s experienced loss. It’s brimming with insecurity as it sits in the fridge waiting for someone to unscrew its cap and hear that painful silence where a fizzing used to be.

Don’t pour it out! Devour its flatness, feast upon its shortcomings, absorb its essence! You see, everyone forgets that seltzer is still water underneath all the razzle dazzle.

My water needs character; it needs emotion! I’m 60% water— that’s more than half of me! How can you have 60% of you be soulless?

That’s just no way to live.

Rold Gold White Dipped Honey Braided Twists

I have decided to take a moment to make an important public service announcement.

For a while now, I have declared Rold Gold Honey Wheat Braided Twists to be my favorite pretzel of all time. I did not think that any pretzel could ever out-do my love for these delightfully salty twists with just a hint of sweetness, but Rold Gold, you've done it again!

I was browsing through the Hampstore (Hampshire College store) a couple days ago, when my eyes were drawn to a small tan bag. I stared at it for a minute, not quite believing what I had seen, but alas it was true!

It was a bag of Rold Gold White Dipped Honey Braided Twists. That's right, the most delectable pretzel has been dipped in white chocolate and my god, it is amazing.

I've just finished the bag and I will probably be back to buy another one later today because they really raise the bar for pretzels everywhere (Utz, get at me!).

So I just wanted to let the world know that a superior pretzel has been born. I'm not saying that you should go out and buy a bag right now, but basically that is exactly what I'm saying.

*I couldn't find a picture of the white dipped ones, so just imagine those dipped in white chocolate...

Italics

I haven't blogged in a while, and I can't think of anything that pressing to blog about, or anything that interesting to randomly blog about. But lately I have noticed that italics make anything look more important. This applies mainly to full sentences, not just particular words. To understand the full effect of the power of italics, I will provide a few examples:

Like this sentence.

Look at the difference between:

The iguana prefers a down jacket.

and

The iguana prefers a down jacket.

Encapsulated (a poem)

Walking through the park,

Still hours until the world grows dark,

With every step movement is sparked,

On the sidewalk pebbles leave their mark,

And in my mind there's an arc of light.

There is magic all around me,

This force that grounds me,

These lives that surround me,

This world that astounds me,

And the people all around me are oblivious.

I'm staring,

Spacing,

My mind is whirling,

Twirling,

And it's as if the universe has been unraveled.

Horrible things all around,

Crying and screaming horrible sounds,

People in rags glued to the ground,

Children picked up from the lost and found,

And I can't close my glazed eyes.

I'm seeing missed chances,

Meant to be romances,

Souls sharing dances,

Exchanging innocent glances,

Laced with "what if"s.

The static is moving to its own beat,

The ground is dancing beneath my feet,

The world is paving me a new street,

Made of glitter and concrete,

And all of a sudden, everything is okay.

People Cakes (a poem/rap thing)

Someone once asked me what I believed in.

I said I was agnostic.

They asked me if that was a religion.

I said no.

They asked me for a definition.

I said,

there could be such a thing as fate,

prayers could be shipped at first rate,

to someone very great...

Or not.

To me it doesn't really matter,

because in the end all we are could just be matter,

some sort of genetic batter,

baked into people cakes.

Some Stuff About Bubbles (Part 2)

"A bubble is this simple, very fragile, easy to understand, beautiful, dreamlike thing that I believe represents this... this future love." -- Lady Gaga

The Kit-Kat

It was raining today, so instead of taking her usual spot on the bench, Irma decided to just sit in and stare out the window. She didn't offer me a seat. I stood behind her chair for a few minutes but then began to feel weird about it, so I pulled up a chair for myself and sat down next to her.
We sat there in silence, watching the rain drops trickle down the glass window. Not many people were out.
Sometimes I thought I would catch a hint of a smile come across Irma's face, but I was never sure because it was just slight enough to make me consider whether or not I had hallucinated it. But I think it was real, because I felt like each time I noticed the corners of her mouth begin to angle up, her eyes were focused on some unfortunate person caught in the rain, running to catch a bus on the corner or shielding their head with a newspaper in the downpour.
I think that she amuses herself through the discomfort of others.
After an hour or so, the Kit-Kat in my pocket began to beckon, so I quietly pulled it out and started to open the wrapper, trying not to disturb the silence. Finally I broke off a section of wafer and looked back up at Irma before biting into it. Her gaze didn't move. She just extended her hand towards me and muttered, "Gimme a break."

My Issue With Fun Dip (Part 2)

A Nestle representative finally emailed me back today!
(Not quite within 48 hours of my inquiry, I'd just like to note...)
Here's the response to my question:


Dear Ms. Sacerdote,

Thank you for contacting Wonka Lik-m-aid Fun Dip.
Our research has shown that two sticks are enough to enjoy all the powder candy. In addition, we want to keep the price as low as possible for our consumers and adding a third stick would increase the product cost. We will report your comments to our Marketing personnel.
We appreciate your interest and hope that you will visit our website often for the latest information on our products and promotions.

Sincerely,
Patricia A. M. Scott
Consumer Response Representative




Well, I guess that's the reason.
But I've got to say, I could see why their research may have pointed to only two sticks being enough for all of the powder in one sitting because technically speaking, it is.
But most people don't eat three packets of Fun Dip powder in one sitting (then again, maybe it's just an issue for me, considering I live in the country with the highest rate of both diabetes and obesity...).
I'm tempted to ask Ms. Scott to elaborate on the details of the marketing research that went on, but I feel like she may not be the kind of person who would humor me, or even get where I'm coming from.
Sure, she works for Nestle which is a candy company. But we have to consider the fact that she works for the consumer relations division of the company, which means that she may not even partake in the consumption of Fun Dip to begin with.
There may in fact be no one that I would be able to easily contact at Nestle that would be able to empathize with my specific problem.
After all, I am probably part of a relatively small demographic of people between the ages of 15 and 25 who actually purchase Fun Dip for personal consumption. I'm not sure how small that demographic actually is, but logically speaking, the demographic for people age 25 and above who purchase Fun Dip for personal consumption is probably a lot smaller, if not completely non-existent.

I don't think that I will ask her for more details on the study because I don't want to be irritating and really, it doesn't matter that much.
Maybe I will just accept the fact that there are only two sticks for three packets as one of those things that just doesn't make sense. There are plenty of other more serious things that don't make sense in the world, so why not let Fun Dip add on to the nonsensical workings of the world?

But it still bothers me. It bothers me because I know that unlike forces of nature or complicated world histories or medical mysteries, there was no complex process that was involved in the creation of Fun Dip.
One person some odd decades ago had an idea and then had it marketed, and then somewhere along the line that same person (or perhaps someone else) decided to include one less stick than was needed. There was intention in this decision. There was no mistake made; there was no unexplained force at work here.
This decision came from a human mind, and it is completely illogical.