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Which is why they have sailed

I. It’s strange for Claudia, who has never been boating before, to live in a boat. Its name is Arden. “Why do we live in a boat if we never go boating anywhere?” Claudia once asked her father. Her parents are both short, so at least they fit under the snug roof. Claudia won’t be short, but for now she is. “Bah,” Her father says, “We’re always going somewhere. Just think of Attila the Hun.” She always thought that comment did not make sense. He flips an egg on the stove, “Just use your imagination.” If you walk by you can see how charming the Arden is—look at that little window with Claudia’s father frying eggs. Look at his kind face with his curly, white-haired head too-big-for-a-hat. He is moving back and forth in a kind kitchen, with a miniature flowerpot on the windowsill. These are clay flowers—they keep on living even if they have been forgotten (except that Claudia broke one of the pedals recently, on accident, and turned the miniature flowers so the wo

Each other

I. Orange juice. We used it as a kind of cure for insanity. Greg made it in the morning and then we would all run off to our prospective studios, and sit there in our prospective studios and know that we could hear the air conditioning and that we could taste our tongue in our mouth and that we worshiped all the things. Mostly ourselves. “We should form a jazz group,” Greg said in the morning the other day, and yes, yes Greg we should form a jazz group YES WE SHOULD FORM A JAZZ GROUP TOM. But who has time for that? “Yes,” we said, especially the girl with the very curly very short hair who made me think of the word “very.” I hated her. Jiminy just did not respond to the suggestion about the jazz group because we knew he would be too busy in the graphic design studio doing whatever the hell they do in there, especially being genuine which was something that other people did not do was “be genuine,” and then also drinking snickerdoodle flavored black coffee. Gre

Gauze

I. Heidi is fat and wears her rain clothes well—they are bright orange and from Canada. Do you know how much she loves the rain? More than other things, at least. In October she sits under the slide and watches the rain fall; each drop a blackbird. This is Heidi from North Carolina, she is new to this school. What is your opinion of her? They ask me, because I am her teacher— “she seems to really love the rain,” I say. “She only goes out to recess when it’s raining,” I say. “But she should always go. It’s good for her to run around.” I know in my head that she does not run around, though, she sits under the slide and listens for the rain instead of playing. One day when the rain turns to ice and a kid falls down the back of the sledding hill and bites his lip clean through, Heidi is there like a lightning bug as if she knows that something is wrong “Jimmie,” she says—“he doesn’t pay attention to things,” she says. And the bag of ice is wrapped in orange gau

Orange like Australia

When I saw Blake the other day I asked him if he’d been sleeping. He said no. I asked him if he’d been eating toaster strudels in the morning or the evening. He said the evening. I asked him if his mother loves him. He said he didn’t know. “Where is your mother?” I asked. “She stopped eating.” He said. I just nodded and we kept playing ping pong. I saw Blake the other day and I read him a poem I had written recently About the last few daffodils near the library And how they looked good in a mason jar, how they looked good when they wore purple neckties, how they “I wish I hadn’t ripped them up,” I said. “They won’t live for super long anyway,” he said. “What would the title of your novel be if you wrote one,” “That’s a stupid question,” he said. I think that’s just something people say when they don’t know how to answer. Blake decided that the world should not care because he does not care. He began wearing pajamas to school and slept in the att

Rosy

My piano teacher's name is Rosy. She teaches piano lessons on Sunday afternoons. I can hear her thick step on the deck, when she comes by. She wears bright shoes but never heels. Heels are no good for pedals. I personally wear bare feet, during piano lessons. My feet are mostly clean feet (like my past), because I am not old, am I. I am just a child taking piano lessons, because that's what good children do on Sunday afternoons. "Hello!" Rosy exclaims, when I open the door (when I open my own door I feel less like a child). When Rosy says "hello," it is a word warm and full of respect. Her voice is distinctive, like red balloons floating into deep sky. She always says "take care" before she leaves. Our door is crystal, or something. All doors should look like my door (beautiful door). This door would read e.e. cummings if she could. Not all doors can read e.e. cummings, you know. But after a certain amount of coulding and woulding there is

Fragile

There are some fragile things -- things that don't seem like they should be fragile, but are. Mostly you don't think about fragile things. It's almost as if to think about them would be all at once to crush them. Like my mother's satin pea coat -- stiff and hanging in her closet all these years. As if she would have worn it all these years, with her three rowdy boys. "Aren't the clouds nice?" Marilyn said the other day, when we were sitting on the roof. Marilyn is my girlfriend, and she likes being in high places. I looked for a while before I responded, noting the crumpled cashmere clouds in their constant state of change. "Yes," I lied. Clouds are one of those things you don't think about often, but when you do, you realize that you have absolutely no control over them. None at all. On Friday, Mom wore her pea coat. She said it was brown but it was definitely black. She looked weird, all dressed up like that.

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