Between the Lines

A Map to Myself

INSPIRED BY JOY HARJO’s “A Map to the Next World”

If only I had a map, maybe I could finally figure out

where I belong.

My one desire is to emerge from the insanity

of these rooms, these prisons.

For my soul is a hermit, who fears to leave

the sanctity of silence.

My map would be carved on the surface of my skin,

A tattoo leading me to the next town, to the next world. Anywhere but here.

The roads are marked out in maroon heartache and

cerulean melancholy.

I’ll wander and avoid the busy places, the

altars of money, the detours of self-pity.

I’ve lost my way, over and over again,

Lost my faith and my humanity and my compass.

Lost myself, over and over again.

Flowers of depression spring up under skies of solitude. Monsters

Feed on their salty petals.

Wind-whispers brush against my skin and mountains

Of flesh rise up, marring the map.

I’ve lost my name, my way, again. The birds

Laugh with mocking tones.

The promise has been broken

And now I am

Nothing.

What I am telling you is true

Except when it is false. My ambiguity guides me and I leave behind

A trail of fallen feathers, wax, and broken dreams.

My imperfect map will have to do.

My father has already crossed the infinite ocean and my mother, she has

a map of her own.

There is no turning back.

If only I could read, I could find the memories

That I forgot so long ago.

Someday, I will travel to the end of all things,

And I will tell you about it. I will tell you

All of the things.

I have not yet journeyed out myself; the end is

just where I have always been looking

And when I take my last breath before I leave

I will finally realize, there is no X, no magic end, no buried treasure. The only goal

Is to hear my mother’s voice, to feel the rough touch

of the memory of my father.

Fresh sadness breaks with morning dew,

History draws fresh blood from flesh maps, maps

that brown in the sun like clay.

The monsters of the past will always find me; they will

Follow the echoes of my footsteps forever.

I climb through caves of uncertainty,

No patronus to guide and to guard me. I rely only on my own ability to

Destroy myself.

I crawl into a hole of shame. I promised to protect you

but I can’t keep my own promises.

I will never be perfect.

I am a falling star, fading

with memories and mistakes.

I will save myself at the last moment, make myself

Whole again. I will understand that everything is both beginning and end.

I will tear away the bruised skin. I don’t need a map

To find myself.

Sestina for Hearts and Birds

The corner of my heart

Is a graveyard where words

Are buried in tombs of silence.

They are vestiges of memories, never

Clear enough to break

To the surface. But my heart’s memory is clear enough.

I’m happy, now. Happy enough,

Anyway. But my heart

Is warped into angles that break

The wings of birds that--like words--

Slowly die in cages. I’ve never

Minded their moribund silence.

A moment of silence

Is an eloquent eulogy. It is enough

To make me believe I never

Kept an aviary in my heart,

That it was a place where words

Sang every morning before daybreak.

What caused me to break?

Silence

Is the only answer I find. Words

are inadequate, not enough
To explain to my heart

when it will find love: never.

Never

Is a long time. I’d break

Down crying if I thought I’d have the heart

To pick myself up after the tears dried up into silence.

But I know I’m not strong enough,

And words are only words.

My words

Will never

Be enough

To break

The silence

In my heart.

The birds never bury themselves deep enough;

Soft plumes break the surface of the earth-heart,

Tiny cairns without words, sepulchers of silence.

Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life (more)

D

Dark:

Denial:

Depression:

Details, The Devil is in the: If the Devil is in the details, where is God?

Dexter:

Dictionary:

Diet: I am always on a diet. More accurately, I’m usually trying to lose weight. It’s been a while since I’ve done an official diet. In fact, I’ve been eating kind of whatever I want lately. (Oops.) Sometimes I feel like I’ve earned it because I’ve run or lifted weights or survived another day, but I always feel a wave of regret when I step on the scale. My weight fluctuates by about 50 pounds, ranging from 130 at my lowest to 180 at my heaviest. Right now I’m in the middle but would like to--as always--lose 10 more pounds. I tell myself it’s just so I can fit in my clothes. I know this is part true, but I also know I want to look and feel skinny. Some memories can never be denied.

Digging: There is something that is immensely satisfying to me about digging. I like the feeling of a shovel in my hand, forming calluses as I heave scoops of dirt from the earth into a heap. I think the satisfaction comes from seeing the progress that I make: the hole gets bigger, and so does the pile of dirt. It gives me a feeling of pride that I can’t find in any other way.

Dinosaurs: In third grade, I was obsessed with dinosaurs. I think this is a common phenomenon among elementary school boys. I had dinosaur toys, models, and books. I knew all the facts about each dinosaur: what it was called, what it ate, what it looked like, where it lived, how it protected itself. The obsession with the historical world of dinosaurs was fleeting, later replaced by an obsession with the fantasy world of dragons. See Also: Dragons

Division, Long: Young people nowadays have no concept of math. Even the brightest of students struggle with any numeric operations more complex than single-digit multiplication. Long division? Forget it. I had the good fortune to learn long division before I was allowed to use a calculator in school. I feel lucky; it allowed me a much deeper understanding of math. Students nowadays want to solve things without doing any real work; they allow that magic box to do everything for them, and they don’t understand what happened when they get an error. They aren’t willing or don’t know how to go back and find the mistake. I like long division in the same way that I like any process that takes time and creates something beautiful. But students now be like:

Dragons: I have a longstanding fascination--an obsession, really--with dragons. I have always played role playing games as a warrior or wizard on a journey to slay a dragon and rescue a princess. As I got older, I started reading fantasy novels: Shannara, Magic Kingdom for Sale, Dragonlance, Ravenloft. These books comprised my adolescence, taught me about bravery and heroism the way that Harry Potter shaped later generations. I still joke with my friends that “I can believe in swords and dragons, but not lasers and aliens.” Science fiction has never appealed to me; I’ll stick to my fantasy realms, where I can slay dragons and be the hero; where I can understand who I am and why I exist; where I can just be me.

My Many Identities

• Tragically In Debt

It all started with a credit card. I thought I could handle it; I was wrong. At first I was responsible, paying off my debt every month. But then one of my friends suggested that it was OK to spend more than I had. Isn’t that why I got the credit card in the first place? Talk about a deal with the devil. It’s one of my biggest regrets. I started putting more and more on my cards--TVs, a washing machine, a king size bed, furniture, my back tattoo, car repairs... before I knew it, I was $20,000 in debt. And that wasn’t even counting the medical bills for my eye surgery, my car loans, or my student loans.

When I was younger, they told me money doesn’t buy happiness. This, I have learned, is only half-true. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but not having enough money can cause a lot of stress and unhappiness. That’s the only thing I regret about my career choice--I wish I could be financially stable. I’m working at slowly chipping away at my debt, but it has changed my view of the world and of myself.

I have this huge fear of dying in debt, of owing the world something. It’s why I’m always hustling, working second jobs and doing little things to make a buck. Someday I’ll be debt free, and maybe then I can truly enjoy life again.

• Too Scared to Publish

How can I teach writing if I don’t publish something? I should at least have a poem in a magazine or something. But I never get to the publishing of what I’ve written. There’s always an excuse. I’m too busy with school. I’m working on a new story, so I don’t have time to revise the other one. I’ll get to it next week, after I’ve cleaned the toilet. The excuses just seem to stack up, but I know, deep down, the real reason I haven’t published something: I’m scared.

Fear is natural in humans, and fear of rejection is all too natural for a human like me. I’m afraid if I send something off to be published--something I’ve poured my heart and soul or my blood sweat and tears or even my time into--I’m afraid I will be told it isn’t good enough. And isn’t that my whole life? Wanting to prove myself to be good enough? I’ve always felt like there was something wrong with me, like I didn’t deserve anything, like I’d never do something important even though I knew I was capable.

I’m working on overcoming my fears and excuses. It was my dream as Kel Alexis to be a famous author, and I am telling myself that after I finish NaNo this year I really will commit to revising, editing, and PUBLISHING my new novel, High Stakes.

• Too Many Ideas at Once

My mind is full of ideas and they bounce around like ping pong balls in a wind tunnel ricocheting off walls and fan blades, going pop pop one into the next until my entire field of vision is a white blur and I can’t remember what I was thinking about because a new idea comes into my head and I know whatever was there before was important but now I can only focus on this one thing I’m thinking about now and it’s like the ideas are tiny explosions each louder than the one before and each demanding attention. There was a time I could focus on one thing or even multi-task on many but now it just seems like I can’t ever finish what I start because there are just too many things and it’s easier to bounce from one to the next than to do the thing that really matters, to look deeply at myself and my world and really see any real truth. I guess that’s why i never finish what I

• Overbooked and Confused

When I was in college, I kept an agenda so that I could keep track of all my classes and activities. Somehow, when I graduated, my ability to use a calendar dissipated. I tried keeping a day planner and even a Google Calendar, but I always forgot to write down my appointments and due dates. And even when I remembered to write down important events, I often forgot to check my calendar. So I just started trying to keep it all in my good old brain, which used to be so reliable.

Now I have to depend on my friends to tell me if I have game duty or special events. I commit too much of my time to various activities and end up not being able to do everything. As a result, I rush through life and never sleep. It’s self-destructive, I know, but what do I do that isn’t?

• Mr. Talks-to-Himself

I constantly talk to myself. Whether I’m watching reality TV, working on a writing project, or cooking dinner, I’m kept company by the sound of my own voice. I suppose I keep myself from being lonely. Sometimes, talking to myself helps me think through all the scattered ideas in my brain. But most of the time I suppose it’s pathetic self-stimulation, an attempt to communicate with the only person who is always able to listen and often the only one gives half a care.

• Chronic Crybaby

I cry. I cry over stupid things. Mostly I cry at the end of movies and books. It doesn’t matter if it’s a happy ending, or sad, or even corny. Something about an ending triggers a Pavlovian response in my brain, and the tear ducts just activate.

It’s not very often I cry at real life. Once in a rare while, something will catch me off guard. But most of my tears are leaked out on fantasy.

When I was at the Vertical Horizon concert, Matt played an acoustic version of The Man Who Would Be Santa and I randomly started crying. I guess I was thinking about my dad.

They say that crying is cathartic, that it purifies the soul and purges negative feelings. I wish that my crying would do that for me; usually it just leaves me feeling very tired, and mildly wet.

Tiny Masters: The Cakemaster

An Interview with the Cakemaster

I recently had the opportunity to speak with the Cakemaster, renowned in certain circles for his delectable desserts.

Interviewer: Word has it that your friends call you the Cakemaster.

Cakemaster: (looks down sheepishly, a ghost of a smile playing across his face) I don’t know that you can call me a master of anything, but I do enjoy baking cakes, and my friends do enjoy eating them.

Interviewer: How old were you when you baked your first cake?

Cakemaster: Honestly, I don’t remember. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mom when I was young. I was in 4-H, and one of my categories was Foods. My mom taught me everything I know about cooking and baking.

Interviewer: So your mother was a cake expert as well?

Cakemaster: Oh, she was and still is far superior to me. She can bake cakes from scratch and make the most amazing frosting. More importantly, she has an incredible talent for cake decoration. Me, I’m lucky if I can spread frosting on a cake without ripping the surface and spreading crumbs. But Mom could really decorate cakes. She took a class on it once, I believe. She had all these different tools for decorating cakes; tips that could be used to create different patterns of piping and whatnot. She would make tiny yellow flowers out of frosting. Sometimes she would make dozens of extras and just store them in the freezer for the next cake.

Interviewer: That sounds pretty impressive.

Cakemaster: It fascinated me. The most memorable photos from my childhood are of me with the cakes my mom made. I remember very distinctly a cake in the shape of a clown, and later a cake with a My Little Pony painted on with frosting.

Interviewer: But you don’t decorate your cakes like that?

Cakemaster: No, I never was good at it. My hands are too clumsy. I like to decorate my cakes with crushed up candy--Heath bars, Whoppers, M&Ms, whatever.

Interviewer: Sweet on sweet?

Cakemaster: What can I say? I like my desserts sweet.

Interviewer: So you learned to bake cakes from your mother.

Cakemaster: Indeed. I was probably eleven or twelve when I made my first cake. Mom almost always made her cakes from scratch. She had this old Betty Crocker cookbook. I think that’s where the recipes came from. Even more important was that the frosting was homemade, too. Mom made the best frosting. I could eat it for days.

Interviewer: Do you make your own frosting?

Cakemaster: (whispering conspiratorially) I cheat on the cakes. Most of the time I make the cakes using a boxed mix, unless it’s for someone really special or for a very important event. But the frosting--the frosting is always homemade. Canned frosting just isn’t the same.

Interviewer: What’s your favorite frosting to make?

Cakemaster: I love butter cream and chocolate butter cream, but I like making cream cheese frosting the best. It’s so easy: a package of cream cheese, a package of confectioner’s sugar, a splash of milk, some butter, and a healthy dose of vanilla--I always go overboard with vanilla, and I only use the cheap imitation stuff (it just tastes so good!)--put it all in a bowl and mix it on medium speed for about two minutes. Nothing could be easier, and people always rave about it, as if I’ve done anything more complex than following a simple recipe. I haven’t. Anyone could make this frosting if they could just follow the directions.

Interviewer: You make it sound so easy.

Cakemaster: It is. And the great thing about cream cheese frosting is that it enhances almost any cake--chocolate, carrot, red velvet. I’ve never tried it with a lemon cake but I bet it would be amazing.

Interviewer: Carrot cake? Lemon? Those are some adventurous flavors.

Cakemaster: I’ve only made one carrot cake in my life. It was for a colleague’s birthday. I have this thing where I always make a cake for my coworker/friends’ birthdays. We share them with the lunch crew. Anyway, this one time my friend Nan asked for a carrot cake, and I obliged. I made it from scratch. It was an insane amount of work. I about bled to death from grating three pounds of carrots. Never again.

Interviewer: It sounds like you really put your heart into it.

Cakemaster: I love making cakes for my friends. I want them to feel special and important. And of course, it doesn’t hurt to hear them telling me how awesome the cake was. (blushing)

Interviewer: What about the lemon cake?

Cakemaster: As for the lemon cake, it’s my favorite flavor to eat, although I’ve never made a lemon cake myself.

Interviewer: Sounds great.

Cakemaster: Lemon cupcakes are pure heaven.

Interviewer: So what advice would you give to an aspiring cake baker?

Cakemaster: Baking cakes is easy. Just follow the recipe to the letter. Baking is all chemistry; it’s a very precise process. Oh, and don’t waste time sifting your flour. Just buy the pre-sifted kind. And be liberal with the vanilla.

Interviewer: Of course.

Cakemaster: Even though you have to follow a recipe, put your heart into it. Make your cakes with love. The people who eat them will be able to tell. (he smiles and offers me a slice of chocolate layer cake with a whipped peanut butter frosting)

Interviewer: Now this is an amazing cake. Very moist. Very rich.

Cakemaster: From scratch. Glad to hear you like it.

Interviewer: Can you give us the recipe?

Cakemaster: I wish it were mine to give. I mostly find my recipes online, maybe tweak them a little, but generally follow them.

Interviewer: Well, it seems to work. That’s all the time we have. Anything else you have to say?

Cakemaster: I’m always on a diet, but I’ll never turn down a piece of cake. There’s something pure about the sugary deliciousness that transports me to a place of pure bliss. And why would anyone ever turn that down?

Interviewer: (shaking my head) When you put it that way, you can cut me another slice.

Cakemaster: (he smiles and obliges)

Why I'll Never Find Love

First kiss
Lips pressing together
Like pages in a book,
Soft and warm as Mom's chocolate chip cookies.

In her living room,
My Little Ponies strewn about the floor
Where we had been playing.

It lasted
Only a moment,
A moment as long as a lifetime.

When I was five

I could already read and write

So I thought the purpose of school

Was to find my future wife.

I thought I found her in first grade.

But not long after that kiss

She was gone

And there was a postcard of horses,

A short message.

I didn't have a concept of moving

And so I thought she would be back

Until Mom explained

And I cried.

No more flavor of root beer candy.

Her strawberry blond hair

Lingered in my mind.

Maybe this is why

I'll never find love.

And this is the story of my life.

Even a happy memory

Ends up melancholy.