Jeff Oaks

The Writing Life, Writing Prompts, Essays on the Ordinary

The House Next Door: a diary

On Sunday evening, while we were away at Easter dinner, a big explosive thunderstorm dumped a lot of water on Pittsburgh.  When we came home, we found this 

Yes, more water in the basement. Thankfully, the firemen came again and pumped out the worst of it. (Please give to your local fire and rescue people when you get the opportunity.)

But this time, the water got into the furnace and the water heater, which, I found out on Monday means they have to be completely replaced. Completely.  They were brand new last June, I should add. 

When the claims guy came from my insurance company, he told me not to expect that either of them will be paid for because normally water damage isn’t covered unless you specifically have flood insurance.  

He may be able to get us enough money to fix the stairs that separated from the wall, but the company could also just say that it’s settling of an old house, which they also don’t generally cover. 

An engineer arrived yesterday to do a full report on the damage. He spent nearly two hours assessing, photographing, and talking to me.  Of course he couldn’t tell me his opinion or preview his report, so I have no idea what to expect there. 

So, in the absence of hope, I’m today talking to a lawyer and venturing out into that great American adventure of suing someone. 

Meanwhile despite a dozen phone calls to the developers, not one of them returned, and despite my exposing to the head contractor about the simplest thing he could do to stop this from happening


When I saw Dan in person, I explained how the missing curb was leading to the water running directly into his lot and then my basement. He seemed to understand, but nothing really changed. There were several times I wanted to go over into the lot and show him how to do it, but I restrained myself from treating Dan like a bad student who has to be shown how to do something before he catches on.  

Let me repeat: all the damage done could have been avoided if the contractors had simply erected a temporary curb or kept the curb line clear. My furnace would still be okay. The hot water would’ve been okay.  The house wouldn’t stink of evaporating muddy water. One person taking ten minutes and a shovel or a half-dozen sand bags could have fixed everything.  But nobody did anything.  

I sometimes imagine how, if I hadn’t had my former student to turn to, to make calls for me to the developers, if I were an ordinary person with no connection to any power, this could drive a person to do violence. All the silence, all the ignorance, all the determination not to notice what’s wrong and how to fix things in a simple way, is maddening. 

It is of course not made better by living in a country where one’s desires are routinely ignored, where the men in power will smile politely but not consider anything outside their pre-programmed agenda. There are no problems for them. Or there problems but we’ll fix them, you just wait.  Or in Dan’s immortal words: “This will all pass soon.”

So now I have to hire a lawyer to make myself heard. 

The House Next Door: a diary; or Men’s Silences

On Monday, rain was expected, and I was worried that the site was still not prepared in case we got another all day rainfall. I tried to call the company whose truck I’d seen– DeFrank Development–but the number on the Better Business Bureau was not in service. I looked up the developer on the Allegheny Real Estate Website and found PennRegent, found their website, which is sleek and hip, but couldn’t find a clear way to reach them. I found their site on Facebook and messaged them with my concerns and asked if they could help. No one answered. Finally, growing more and more concerned, I posted on a social site NextDoor Lawrenceville, asking if anyone knew the contractor’s number? One of my neighbors suggested trying the our neighborhood business/ development organization, Lawenceville United, so I called them. 

In the small world of Pittsburgh, it turns out that one of my old students is now the director of that organization, and I explained to him the situation, which he understood immediately. He gave me the number of one of the developers, but my message went directly to voicemail. So I called back my old student, who said he’d put in a call himself to the younger of the father and son development team. A little after that, he said, Zach would call me. Nothing.  Who did finally call me was Dan, who’d clearly gotten the message that I was worried. He assured me that he’d make sure that they’d build a barrier to replace the curb, and everything would be taken care of. 

Great, I said, glad to hear it. 

And then I came home after teaching that day, I found this: 

But now I had Dan’s direct number, so I called him. (And, I should admit, some amount of soul-searching because nearly every voice in my head was saying, oh, don’t bother that nice guy; maybe nothing will happen; maybe we won’t actually get rain; do you really want to be a pain; who are you to tell Dan how to do his job?).  But I could see what was wrong very clearly:

If you take out the curb, you have to set up a new one where the old curb was. So, I told Dan, somebody’s got to come down here and rake that gravel back about three feet, move these sand bags behind the gravel to support it against the water flow.  Otherwise, these sand bags are going to trap the water into a pool right in front of my house and that’s not good either.  

I tried to talk to him about how water runs down the street, that you can’t trap it or, as he was thinking, redirect it. You have to give it passage.  “Well,” he said finally, “you know best how water works on your street. I’ll send someone down to fix it.” 

I thanked him and went into the house feeling irritated that I’d had to explain what seemed to me to be a completely obvious engineering issue and glad I’d had the courage to speak, to “persist” against the voices that told me to just keep quiet, to go along with the boys, to not make waves.  I was enormously exhausted. 

Two hours later, a young man named Christian, as if out of an allegory, arrived and dig exactly what I’d explained to Dan needed to be done. He’d been sent alone. I stayed up in case he needed anything. For another hour or two, he shoveled and positioned and repositioned sand and gravel. When he was finished he knocked on the door to show me his labor, which was exactly right. I should’ve ordered him a pizza. I said I was sorry he’d had to come out but how grateful I was that he had. He shook my hand cheerfully. 

There was no more water in the basement, or just a little dampness that would disappear soon. 

I thought, okay, I can rest a bit now. I’ve made my point. They know what to do. They won’t do it again. 

Yesterday, I came home to this: 

And a forecast of rain, lots of it.

The House Next Door: a diary

19/

All of this writing is about men. In this undertaking, I am surrounded by men. Not one of the developers is a woman. Not one of the firemen staring at the water in my basement was a woman. I’ve not seen one woman working as a laborer for Dan, the guy who seems to manage things at the ground level. I’m trying to keep my eye on that. 

*

Anyway, once the firemen got the hose through the back door and into the basement and turned on their pump, and the water began flowing out of my house and into the nearby storm sewer, which took longer than you would’ve thought but worked finally; and once the dozen firemen left (the chief pointing out to me as he was going how the construction next door caused all this by impeding the flow of water down the street) with my many, many thanks; and after I made a quick trip to Home Depot to buy a Wayne Waterbug, my new favorite appliance,


to pump out the rest, a process that took until 4 am and which necessitated I stay downstairs all night to move it occasionally to a new spot; after all that, the house felt somewhat secure again. I was exhausted at last like the loved one who’d been sitting up with a friend who’d undergone an operation. I slept from 5 to maybe 7am. It has become the weekend, and as I go down to make sure no water’s come back in (none has), I call my insurance agent to tell her the whole story.

*

Yadda yadda yadda.

*

Here enters the only woman in the story: Patty. Who gives the most practical advice about how to handle things. #1. Try one more time to get the contractor’s insurance certificate; #2. If they don’t produce one, put a claim in via my insurance company, and “let the company go after them.” That way, she tells me, you don’t have to worry about it. She tells me things in very reassuring ways: here’s what your deductible is; here is the number for the claims adjuster’ here’s what you tell him or her. Of all the people in the story, I’ve known Patty for nearly 20 years, when I went with my mother to get my first auto insurance. The memory of my mother lingers around Patty like a perfume, so I tend to trust her. 

“And you are taking pictures of everything, aren’t you?” she asks. 

The House Next Door: a diary

18/

The days go on. The basement hole next door is dug. Men come and go and I try to leave my house before they arrive. In the dark this morning, just as the furnace turns off, I hear the dog breathing steadily, each breath with a little chime in it, so that in the suddenly very quiet house each breath is the ping of sonar. With rain falling around us, the house is a submarine. Upstairs, my husband still sleeps. In about fifteen minutes, at seven a.m., he’ll get up and shower and get ready for work then come down and he and the dog will go through their morning ritual of hugging, scratching, and going out into the kitchen to eat breakfast. Their sweetness with each other is better than any poem that I might write, any sentences I might construct about it. This is the thing people try to cultivate inside the places they live, these kinds of rituals of love and kindness and mutuality. 

19/

Then on Friday night, as I’m settling on the couch with dog, I hear a noise: the furnace tries to turn on but then make a little thump. Tries again and ends again with a thump. I think, oh shit, that new furnace is already fucking up, so I get up and go down into the basement to see if I can see anything. 

And I see water. Water in my basement, at least a couple of inches deep, to judge from a single two by four I had standing against the wall at the bottom of the steps. 

And I think holy shit. And in my head there’s a chattering of birds taking off, a kind of white noise of panic. I text my husband 


Then it occurred to me to call our friends the Sabo’s, who are long-time home owners and practical people. Bob tells me to call 911, to tell them the water is threatening the furnace and then to call him back. I should say that Bob is a retired commander in the 911 system, so if he says to do something, I do it. 

And they patch me through immediately. I’m surprised and feeling just a little guilty. I’m afraid I’ll be pulling them from a heart attack or an actual fire, I think as I stand outside in the still-falling rain watching for their red lights. I have a hard time thinking not involving death is an emergency. 

Here’s the quick recap:

Greet men, walk them to the basement, they go down, they ask me if my drain is plugged, I say there’s no drain, there’s never been one, and I’ve never had one, and then I say, you might want to turn off the furnace and water heater, because I hadn’t thought to and they have waterproof boots on, and one of them goes over and indeed flips the right fuses. I ask if they can tell anything about the kind of water it is, and the man who seems the most senior says he can tell it’s at least not sewage because there’s no stink. But whether it’s from rain runoff or a broken water line, he can’t tell yet. One man asks if there’s anything they can save for me, gesturing at the shelves full of crap, and I say no, there’s nothing on those. Everything important is in the plastic bins behind the stairs. Then I joke that we were going to clean out a lot of the stuff anyway, now we have a real reason to. It’s true, thankfully. Joking helps return to reality.

What I’m really worried about is whether anything big, foundational, has been cracked. But they can’t tell me where there’s any clear break in the wall near the construction, or if there’s a crack in the floor. Nothing is pouring out or bubbling up that any of us can see. The lack of a clear cause does not of course make me feel better. I wanted a clear reason to sue the contractors.

What I really want (I quietly think) is to sell the house and run away. 

After a bit, my friend Bob comes over, which makes the dog especially happy; at least one familiar face! It’s the first time his tail has wagged all night. And I am equally grateful for a man who can speak both my language of frightened home-owner and the language of firefighting and rescue men. I’ve mostly been throwing funny quips at them and trying not to be irritated when one after another asks me the same question about the drain they’re sure the house has. No, I keep saying. I’ve never needed one. This has never happened before. No, really. 

In their uniforms and enormous boots, their mostly hidden faces, they all present formidable, mythically masculine figures, but they are all kind and quiet. Here are men willing to tackle disaster, even maybe interested in it. They’ve all taken turns going down and looking at the shallow sea my basement has become. 

The House Next Door: a diary

March 27/

Damages so far: 

The top right corner of the housefront has lost its plaster/cement. It was patched quite a while ago, and had been looking a little weak lately, but when the contractors banged the chain link fence into one day, it clearly gave way. Its pieces fell into the trench they dug. I’m going to have to tell them I expect them to fix it. My in-laws have told me to call my insurance company first, in case they want to go after them. 
The other thing we’ve noticed is that the inside stairs, which were just fixed a few years ago, have pulled out somewhat (between an 1/4 inch to a 1/2 from the wall), making them more dangerous, more likely to break. You can see the dark places where they’ve moved away from their normal slots in the structure. 

Other lesser strains: Nerves, tempers. Michael started to fall asleep last night but then had a dream in which a gigantic crack opened up in the bedroom wall near his head. He was up after that and never quite fell back to sleep. 

Yesterday, we went downstairs to inspect the walks. He’d only been down there a few times, so when he started pointing out cracks in the plaster, I had to say, “no, that was there.” Most of that wall is plaster and stone and worse is covered by a pegboard over the big worktable done there. There was nothing more that I could see. 

My relationship to cracks is that I don’t like them, in houses most deeply, but also in arguments, in friendships, in my own personality. I’m not forgiving of any threat of loss. What I can’t prevent, I’m given to abandoning. I’m not given to optimistic scenarios of mending fences or burying hatchets. Of course one could say that I’ve crafted a teaching and administrative career out of fixing problems, of anticipating difficulties. If there were none, I wouldn’t have my job. 

I am enchanted every time someone on Facebook posts an example of the Japanese art of kintsugi, in which a broken bowl is repaired with a lacquer dusted with gold, that brokenness can result in a more beautiful object. I believe that “there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” But those are aesthetic ideas I can’t actually live inside, how ever much I might admire them. I want my house to be safe and secure. The only light I want coming in should be from the windows. 

Poetry is a kind of kintsugi, isn’t it? Maybe all art is. A simultaneous recognition of a break with the normal world we auto-pilot through and of our ability to transform discomfort, grief, rage, into something bearable, even interesting. Am I appreciating this old house now, as it exists under pressure, or do I just want to sell it off and run away? Mostly the latter. But where in this rapidly gentrifying city would I now be able to settle? 

The House Next Door: a diary

March 22/

Yesterday, no one came, and I missed them. I’d gotten up early so I could get the dog out of the house because loud noises make him anxious. They’d done so much work on Monday that I was sure more would happen Tuesday. It was the hope that “It’ll all be over soon,” the hope of every victim, I suppose, although my victimhood isn’t a real one, only an irritation. After all this, my house will enjoy a better financial position, I’m told over and over. So how could this be anything but good? More like a dental cleaning. More like a proctological probe. I’ll live and prosper apparently.
What I want now, in any case, is a schedule again, a way to predict the world. Isn’t this like any relationship, in which the terror and/or excitement of the first days dominates everything, until your old habits kick back in. When the honeymoon period is over, the marriage is really between keeping as much of your old world as you can as you try to integrate the new world’s demands. Sometimes you realize you can’t do it and either change yourself and embrace the new world, leaving the old one behind (here, I think of the process many, many of my students are going through as they leave a youth they can’t remain in forever), or you abandon an uncertain or frightening future for the pleasures you knew you had before (Make America Great Again, anyone?). I know it’s not that simple of course; I’ve always smuggled away something from every relationship I’ve been in–a turn of phrase, a love for Thai food, an appreciation for bank clerks–some smugglings so quiet I don’t realize until years later came from someone else. 

This construction is a temporary relationship, but already I’m using it as a way to think about my relationship to change, which in a year of enormous anxiety is of some benefit. Writing has always helped me deal with change. I wrote about my grandmother’s death before she died. I felt guilty then, even ghoulish, but it did help. When my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, I did for the two years she had left. I wanted to be sure to see her while I could. Now who am I reporting on but my own passage through anxiety, I suppose. A kind of travel writing project. Who will I be when the new expensive house (and neighbors eventually) materializes? Will I want to sell and run? 

Hope: some notes

Today seems to be a day of peace for the construction next door, so I’m actually thinking about other things than my house falling over. 

Specifically, I’m supposed to read next Saturday at an event whose theme is Hope. I’m doing it because I admire the organizer, who is a colleague and friend of mine. She is someone I think of as serious, as in: not given to superficial gestures, which in a time of panic only waste everyone’s energies. 

In my journal today I tried writing directly about hope, because it’s not a thing I think about directly. Here’s where I got:

It can be practiced. It can be an obstacle. 

We might think of Trump as an embodiment of half the country’s desperate hope, a kind of Hail Mary pass. Unfortunately, there was no one else on the field, only an imagined blitz that never came. Equally Unfortunate: the ball seems to have been caught by someone in a corporate viewing box. 

I didn’t know if, after my mother died, I’d have hope enough to live. I did. She had so much hope for us that I didn’t think about whether I’d been depositing my own self-generated hope into that same account. When she died, though, she’d made it abundantly clear she hoped my brother and I would live again, that we wouldn’t lose hope.

Is hope really hope if you can only imagine a single ending to any dilemma? I’d say no. To hope to control doesn’t seem real hope, which allows multiple possibilities, some conservative, some exuberantly delicious and unexpected. To hope is different from to expect. Or to win, which has an ending. Hope doesn’t. It extends endlessly into the future.

Who against hope believed in hope (Romans 4:18)

in which “against” seems to have meant “without rational reasons to”. Here it might be seeping into faith, which is a starched kind of hope, an obedient form.

Most of my hope these days is placed in (or do I mean “on”?) my students. Paradoxically perhaps because I’m not sure what they have to hope for in whatever world the Republicans are currently trying to project from their own feverish dreams into (or is it on?) the real world. You can see how little hope the Republicans have in their own ideological desires–the way they hide things, the way they keep trying to act as if words have no meanings but the ones they want them to have, their crooked little closed-mouth smiles. They have no hope in individuals.

There are many who hope it will all just go away and don’t care how–acts of god, rabid politicians devouring each other, military coup, legionnaire’s disease. I’m not sure that any of those are hopeful. Although some fantasies can lead out of despair and toward the first hopeful act of voting.

I hope for the student–which one, I don’t know–who, after my class, somehow manages to sneak into deserted places, heartless places, sterile places, with a few lines of poetry intact, the way a positive virus might enter into an unbalanced body and awaken it, re-orient it toward surprise, humor, depth, humanity. 

Hope is hard to think about without metaphors, which are ways of organizing or mobilizing hope maybe.

When there is no hope you can articulate, hope anyway. The world is wild with possibilities. That’s my hope anyway.

My hope that my house will keep standing when the contractors come and bulldoze and excavate the lot next door is a very small hope in light of the other hopes here. There is plenty of, indeed overwhelming, reason to trust that nothing awful will happen. 

The House Next Door: a diary

Yesterday, the contractors were here until 6:30 pm, and there were commotions of trucks delivering gravel and trucks hauling dirt away. It looks to me as if they were mostly working on the utility lines in the back. They were moving fences around, the little bulldozer rumbled around, and the backhoe busily shoveled dirt into a big truck that eventually drove off at the very end like a happy ending. I heard the men laughing, and the phrase “about two and a half hours” a couple times. My thought was that they’d worked two and half hours over what they were supposed to. 

So far the house hasn’t fallen over. Even the house behind the house they’re building hasn’t fallen over yet, and those folks, who are new buyers, had the backhoe basically on their back porches; they will have almost no back yard in the new configuration of things. But the fact that their house didn’t fall, after all that house has been through, is a sign that the houses are probably stable enough. 

This morning I woke up at 6 am to the sound of a truck in the intersection and I thought: oh, god, they’re here at 6 am. But then that truck went on through the stop sign and elsewhere. Then at 7:30, I heard a loud truck noise and thought, well, at least, there’s light now. But it was just the garbage men, the refuse collectors, the sanitationists, picking up our bags of refuse. 

The sound of trucks, which I grew up hearing, because of my father’s sand gravel company, is a mixed blessing these days. 

But the contractors have seemed to be pretty thoughtful so far about not bringing heavy machinery into the quiet of our mornings. 

Now, if the country could only get the Republican ideologues in Congress and the White House to learn such subtlety, such restraint, such respect for the lives they are supposed to be serving. Goodbye, they said yesterday, to Meals on Wheels in their budget. To the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. Because, says the budget director, we can’t in good conscience ask coal miners to pay for National Public Radio. Although they already are asking coal miners to pay for the President’s near-weekly trips to ply golf in Florida, and they’ve already assumed that coal miners are glad to pay instead for police protection of Trump Tower while Melania stays there with Barron because they didn’t want to take him out of his private school. If he’d stay home at the WH or she’d move in with him, the money used to protect her or entertain him could fund an enormous number of things for coal miners. Things that might actually protect or entertain thousands, even millions, instead of three.

Who do we turn to, while the few are carving out a space only for the rich out of the taxes of the many? We send out postcards to illiterates of the heart, hoping to scare them. We sign petitions praying each time that the websites aren’t just phishing schemes to get out emails and information. It doesn’t seem as if anyone is really listening.

I mean, I can’t even find on our local government website the legal start and stop times for residential contracting work. 

The House Next Door: a diary 

1/ March 13

Is today the day? The “developer” of the lot next door has parked two backhoes in it. They sit like two scorpions, bucket arms curled up, near the back of the lot, and the no parking signs are up along our half of the already crowded street. Nobody is going to get to park comfortably for a while, and it will be even worse on weekends.

Breathe, I say to my chest and mind. It will be all right eventually. Breathe in anxiety and breathe out peace. If anything happens, I can sue. Although the house is old, the basement is old, and I am afraid, no other equally old house or equally frightened neighbor has fallen apart because of the new construction in one of the empty lots. Some nice houses have been built, and some horrors, it’s true, but about taste, there’s not a whole lot to do. The plans make this one coming seem decent. 

Breathe, I have to keep saying, as if I am my own respirator. I notice tightness of muscles everywhere. It can be hard to tell it from excitement sometimes but this own has much powerlessness in it. I will have to accept most of what comes the way I’ve had to accept changes already: the loss of the pear tree and the spruce that grew in that lot and sheltered birds. I will be penned in on one side now as I never have been. The noise will be obnoxious for at least a year. 

I write to ameliorate my fear of change, which I have never loved. Even though I have lived through enormous changes which have been wonderful I still fear it. Does anyone love the threshold over which one has to pass if one is to act, to speak? Why is it that there is always an apocalypse at the ready in my mind and not the peaceable kingdom? This is test says the spiritual pilgrim I’ve installed in my head. (This is “only” a test, says the internal joker-voice, echoing the old tv “emergency broadcast system” we used to hear periodically.) 

There was also supposed to be a snowstorm today, that same voice reminds. What fell so far? I look out onto our little street. Nothing.
2/ March 14

Shall I mention the cool precision of the man who runs the backhoe when I come home for lunch, the way he guides the bucket expertly in the alleyway between the two houses behind ours? He’s digging out a new waterline, I think. And despite the apparent clunkiness of the backhoe, he’s maneuvering it with such delicacy it surprises me. I think of metal and mechanical things as unsubtle tools of men, but as I watch quietly from the car before getting out with the dog and my bags, I can see the care the man inside the machine is exercising. The neck of the backhoe extends slowly and carefully between the houses where he has to dig like the neck of a goose nibbling grass. 

What I expect, as I said, as I have to remind myself day after day, is always the worst of humans. I expect men who work with their hands or in some physical way to be rough, uncaring, nonverbal, insensitive to the emotional lives of others. Yesterday when I left the house with the dog, the contractors were just getting out of their oversized white truck. The guy from the passenger side was exactly what I expected: large and scowling. He looked at us without a word, though I smiled. When we walked around the front of the truck to get to my car, we encountered the driver of the truck, who was exactly the opposite. He said Good Morning loudly, and I smiled and said it back. I said I wasn’t sure anything was happening today because we’d expected snow and he laughed and said Yeah, we were surprised too. We both laughed. I got the dog inside the car and turned to the driver to ask about the work going on, so I had, I told him, some sense of what to expect. He told me in a voice that was neither irritated by having been asked or nervous about where I might be going with my question. He seemed genuinely human.

The result? I wasn’t panicked the whole day about what was going on. 

Which is not to say that later in the day when I came home and saw one of the men running the backhoe so expertly, I felt happy to lose the lot to these strangers who didn’t know our little cluster of folks or feel the need to care about our emotional lives. But I did think: I can survive this.

That the dog wasn’t nervous about the sound of the work next door helped too. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I’d feared. 

Then my house shuddered.
3/ March 16

But nothing happened. Nothing that I could see anyway. I looked out the front door and though the backhoe was close to the house, there was nothing I could see wrong or dented or marked. 

It does occur to me that since the house is attached to the earth around it, I might be misjudging the sound of the house being hit and the sound of the earth around us moving. One I can sue over. The other I’m not so sure about.

I’ve begun looking over the walls on that side for new cracks. I put my palms on the big wall going upstairs the way I’d put my hand on the flank of a big horse: to steady myself against its presence. 
At the same time, of course, the nation is actually shuddering. The Republican congress, with the new Narcissist-in-Chief is at work rearranging the American government, are today about to strip away the Arts, defund scientific research, and aid to the poor here and abroad. 

Breathe, I say to my chest and mind. Breathe in anxiety and breathe out peace. If anything happens, I can sue. Although the house is old, the basement is old, and I am afraid, no other equally old house or equally frightened neighbor has fallen apart because of the new construction in one of the empty lots.

I say it again and again to my apocalyptic mind, and the nation is not likely to completely collapse either. I honestly don’t know what will happen, though, to the nation I hoped would be better than this by now. Some days I do feel as if a house has fallen on me.  I have never won an NEA fellowship, but many of the literary journals I’ve published in seem to depend on that body for funding in large and small ways. Not that the Republicans care or think about the literary infrastructure. They can’t even seem to think about public infrastructure. Their transparency, their utter devotion to their corporate sponsors is abundantly apparent. They don’t care if the government falls; they have accounts elsewhere, expect windfalls from lobbying jobs. They will never be touched by hardship or emotional crisis. 

They have replaced the weather in their inhumanity. I’m insured against the house falling over or a hurricane.
 

That March

There is always more and it is exhausting. There is always more and it is the American Dream. Remember when the old fascists tried to beat their enemies by strangling their access to resources? Letting them freeze to death in garrets and prisons? Well, that is still going to go on, don’t worry, but for many, many of us won’t even notice our incarcerations. In our in-house arrests, we fatten ourselves up, indulge in every comfort we can afford, until we simply fall asleep early every night, bloated with whole wheat pasta and cheese and a good, cheap wine or an artisanal cider or beer bought right at the grocery store. We have explanations, of course. Everything is spiked with self-care: binge-watching tv shows about serial killers who want to do good, children who uncover secret powers in themselves but who only really want to eat waffles with someone who loves them, small people who manage by luck and timing to accrue vast amounts of wealth and power. Meanwhile, around us, over us, beyond us, Hollywood and the political parties are remaking King Kong again, not because they care about the world of giant gorillas, but because they are addicted to the human deep-dream of controlling everything, even the impossible, every hairy, bellowing, enemy-smashing drop of the id that can be found. Simplifying everything into the big and violent. Until everything is an invasion story. Smaller screens feed us stories of heroes who, although denied normality in one way–by being blind, black, a woman–also cannot be killed, who survive by listening well, by being bulletproof, by being surprisingly strong or by having bodies made of quicksilver and lightning, by being constantly conscious of threat. At the level of books, there are too many voices; at the level of video games, at the level of movies, at the level of blogs and news sites and musicians and points of view. Until there is no direction of quiet, of stillness, which itself has been made into death, into collaboration. We are stuffed with choices, our consciousnesses loud with digestion and excretion, with the efforts to keep up, with the fear of missing out. We go to bed early in pain, out of breath, in relief. We wake early in the morning to journal out/about our anxieties and intentions because otherwise there’s no time, between lying comatose or frozen over with panic on the couch or at the desk, at lunch listening to our friends and lovers detail the torments of their equally overstuffed days. Soon enough, I’ll do something. Until maybe at the barber’s shop, because the funny but visibly tired barber takes a little extra bit of time massaging your sudsy head in the sink as she stares out the window, her strong fingers breaking up the tensed muscles around your swollen brain, you feel actual pleasure suddenly, so acutely you might suddenly weep for the kindness of it if it were kindness. And you desperately want more of even that.

Noah Stetzer

noah.stetzer@gmail.com

Sejal Shah

writer of fictions & truths

The Public Brain Journal

Toward an understanding of what's not understood

markandgeetaville

Postcards (from all over the MAP)

Heidi Rosenberg

Writer, Poet, Teacher.

Some Portraits and Notes on What I Heard

Flash essays on music, people, things I can't forget, and things I won't remember

Marissa Landrigan

The greatest WordPress.com site in all the land!

Seven Kitchens Press

Pie for everyone.

faith adiele

just your typical nigerian * nordic * american girl. who writes * speaks * teaches * travels. (yeah, i was obama first.)

Sibling Rivalry Press

D i s t u r b /E n r a p t u r e

Pitt in Edinburgh, a blog

In which we explore and report on the mysteries of Scotland

The Quotidian Diary

The beauty and quirk of the everyday, common and mundane

MARISSA LANDRIGAN

Writer. Professor. All Around Nerd.

The Poet's Grin

Poet Philip F. Clark invites you to a place for poetry, and the voices who make it.

Ryan M McKelvey

come once, come one, come on, common

irawati

Success is a journey, not a destination

HOW TO LIVE IN IT

(amateur poet's amateur personal essays)