One day Ray (that was his name) noted that I was having a tragic childhood. He wasn’t being mean—it was obvious. Everyone at the non-profit organization could see that I was poverty-stricken, angsty, and vitamin-deficient. It wasn’t a secret and a lot of my childhood neighbors could be described the same way. So Ray noted my “bad” childhood, said it would likely lead to a bad young adulthood, and then I’d be destined to have a good second half to my life.

I laughed. How did he figure that?

It was a theory he’d developed. He’d observed that people who had inordinately bad childhoods usually went on to have very good lives later. And the reverse was true, as well, he said. He gave me examples. Most were successful people who’d grown up poor and child actors gone wrong. He listed James Dean. I pointed out that James Dean had died young. He said that was the ultimate example: good half was fame and fortune, bad half was being dead.

I thought his theory was silly. I didn’t say so but he could tell, and he kept reassuring me that it was true, especially in my case. He invoked his ethnicity. He was some kind of American Indian—I forget which tribe—and he had a special feeling (which, as a Chicana, I had to respect), therefore his words were actually a premonition. He saw my future by looking into my eyes. Click!

I’m not a dumb-dumb. Even then I knew he was trying to be nice. Cheer up the girl and get her to smile. Guys tended to do that, some more creatively than others. His method fed into my secret hopes and made for a better photograph.

When the ‘80s ended, I embarked on an unhappy young adulthood. Of course I did—with the life I’d lived until then, it was practically my destiny.

But now I’m happy. (Like the Russian man said, every happy family is happy in the same way, so you can imagine it without details.) Everything around me is different, to the point that people who meet me now have a hard time imagining the hungry, sad child I tell them I used to be.

Problems arise in my life, yes. But they aren’t part of an unlucky existence—that unstoppable series of unfortunate events, one after another—like they used to be. They’re only temporary obstacles. Like plots on a sitcom, they’re resolved with happy endings, week after week.

I know, rationally, that my life changed because I’ve gained experience, worked hard, gone to therapy, and aligned myself with trustworthy people. But I think about Ray’s theory more and more lately, and it gives me extra confidence. Even though it’s silly, I find myself thinking, “Remember, this is the good half of my life.” That means problems are temporary. That means it’ll all work out in the end.

It’s a comforting mantra, like shorthand for everything I’ve learned. Basically, it was the modeling fee Ray paid me for my smile. #can’tstayseriousforonewholepage

Poetry Book as Personality Test?

Read my latest book, Falling in Love with Fellow Prisoners and tell me what you think of it, and you’ll be telling me something about yourself.

Someone said it’s all about sex and women striving to dominate men.

Someone said it’s about hope and being a mom.

A lot of Houstonians said it’s about urban loneliness.

College students are my favorite readers because they bravely tell me their interpretations and demand that I confirm or deny. Some students thought the poem “Girlfriend” was about a girl lamenting to a boy. Some thought it was a boy having his heart broken by a girl. All the students in the class knew “Eula in the Bathroom Stall” was about feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable… but why? Because the speaker was defecating? Masturbating? Having a really bad day at school?

A young woman asked if the catcaller’s words in “Omega Wolf” were things that had actually been said to me. I told them the actual comments that had inspired it—way less graphic but every bit as invasive—and they were shocked. Could easily imagine the fear/loathing/fascination I felt and then tried to convey in the piece.

Someone thought the poem about a spinal headache was about miscarriage. His mistake made me imagine his fears.

I hate opaque poetry and I try to keep mine plain and comprehensible. But I love hearing people’s interpretations, even when they’re totally different from my intent. All I want is to make you feel what I felt, or let you know that I feel what you felt, so we’ll feel less alone.

It’s always cold on the bus. For that reason, I kind of hate riding it in the mornings, especially when I’m wearing a skirt without hose or tights or leg warmers, as is sometimes mandated by fashion in the summer time. But everyone has their crosses to bear, right?

This morning I got on the bus without hose or tights or legwarmers, and it was very cold. I put my iPod (my Sony Walkman iPod) into my ears and hugged myself into as compact a shape as possible.

The bus starts filling up, and this guy gets on. He’s a small guy, ethnic origin somewhere on the Eastern Hemisphere. He sits by me, and I take care not to sigh or jut out my elbow or even look at him, because I hate it when I’m forced to sit by someone else on the bus, and that someone else makes it clear that they’re annoyed and that they’d been wishing that their $3 fare would have somehow paid for two seats. I mean, I get annoyed when strangers sit next to me, too, and I wish my $3 bought me a force shield from strangers, too. But that’s not the way Metro works, is it?

So I’m sitting there, trying to be polite and only feeling a little bit sorry for myself, when I realize that the guy sitting next to me is hot. Not attractive-hot, but temperature hot. He’s radiating heat like a furnace. I peeked at him as much as manners would allow, but he didn’t seem to be feverish or on fire. He was just radiating heat, somehow. Like, from the inside.

I decided, then, that he must have been a demon. Either that or an elemental, but most likely a demon, because I don’t imagine elementals looking like people or wanting to ride the bus. I glanced again and saw that he was reading a text full of arcane-sounding words. (Cold fusion? HP 3200?) That seemed to confirm his supernatural nature.

I turned my face away from the demon man and, for a split second, felt uncomfortable. Then, I felt good. I felt warm. I’d been cold before, but this demon dude was literally generating enough heat to make up for the fact that I had no pantyhose on under my sandals and knee-length skirt. It felt nice, like a cozy fire.

I wondered, then, what it meant to take comfort from a demon. Was it safe? Was I unintentionally giving away my soul?

Really, there was nothing to fear. In every story I’ve ever heard on the subject, demons can’t possess your soul unless you give them verbal permission. And you have to invite them onto your premises, in the first place. Right? I’d invited this demon nowhere, as we were sitting in a public place. I hadn’t said anything to him at all. As long as I kept my Sony Walkman iPod in my ears and minded my own business, I could warm myself with the demon fire and keep my soul and its first serial rights. He wasn’t even a big demon, anyway. I didn’t think he could carry me if he wanted to.

The warmth made me sleepy and I drifted through dreams as pawn shops and Adult Video Stores sped by. “Is this,” I wondered, “how it starts? Can people get possessed in their sleep? Is demon heat a roofie?”

But we made it downtown okay. Someone rang the bell and, like zombies awoken, several of the passengers stood up and stumbled out into the sunlight as filtered by skyscrapers. The demon got up to let me pass and didn’t even spare me a glance.

I didn’t realize why until now, after typing all this. I’ve already been marked by someone else. My soul is the property of Corporate America.

intro to bus stories 2, 3, and 4

So I recently bought myself an MP3 player as a reward for a job well done. (What job is that, you ask? The job that is being myself.) And, now that I have one, I see that there’s a secret world I’ve been missing out on but am now a part of.

Before I had an MP3 player, I didn’t want to know anything about them, because I hate window shopping. You know? I don’t want to hear about stuff I can’t afford, in general. But then they got cheap, so I decided to get one, so I did my research and picked the one with the most battery life.

(Also, I waited to get one because I just had no use for one before. But now that I have a job where we’re allowed to listen to them (and where our laptops have no soundcards), and now that I ride the bus instead of driving my van and listening to my own CDs…)

Before I had an MP3 player, I ignored people who had them. I purposely spaced out when people talked about them. But not anymore.

Now, when I ride the bus, I notice who’s listening to music and who’s not. And I notice that other people notice it, too.

bus story 2

The other day, I was on the bus and I busted out my [Sony Walkman] iPod (which I will call an ipod from now on, because screw Corporate America and their branding. kleenexes! xeroxing!! orange and lemon cokes!!!).

I turned on my music and went to the place where I go to when my music’s on. It’s a place in my mind, and it’s a combination night club, costume party, trip abroad, and Houston’s Galleria mall.

So I was there, and I don’t know if it showed on my face or what, but the guy sitting across from me smiled at me.

Not in a creepy way, but in a sort of empathetic yet wistful way. Like he could tell that I was happy, and he was glad for me, and yet he maybe wished he had an ipod, too.

He seemed like a nice guy, actually. But I didn’t smile back. I just blinked at him and then looked away.

I don’t smile at strange men. Especially not on the bus.

bus story 3

Right after that, the angry-looking man next to the nice-looking man gave us both a glare. Really, he just gave a long, long glare that encompassed us, all the other passengers, and everything else on earth.

Then, the angry-looking man looked at my ear buds. Then, he took some earbuds out of his pocket and attached them to his phone.

I don’t know if y’all know this, but a lot of newer phones are also ipods now. Seriously. They are.

The angry-looking guy turned on his phone ipod, and then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I hoped that his music made him feel better. I wondered what song he was listening to, but there was no way I could ask.

bus story 4

Today I rode the bus home and I listened to my ipod. Of course. Across from me, an older woman sat there with white ear buds in her own ears. And she kept glancing at me.

“What is this woman looking at?” I thought. But that question didn’t make me as angry as it used to, because I had my ipod on and it’s hard to get angry when I’m in my music place.

The woman glanced and glanced, and then, when I had to adjust my volume, I pulled my ipod out of my bra, out of the neck of my shirt, and did so. And then the woman kept looking, but her look became very thoughtful. I thought that maybe she was noting my clever idea of going hands-free with the use of my bra. She was maybe thinking, “Wow. It fits in there so well. I wouldn’t have even guessed she had an ipod in her bra.”

Then, the woman lifted her own ipod from her lap. It was a real iPod, and it had a leather case with an apple on it and everything. When she lifted it and opened the case, she glanced at me again.

I couldn’t help but suspect that she wanted me to notice her. I suspected that she’d just gotten that new ipod, maybe for a gift or maybe she went right into the apple store and bought it for herself, for a job well done.

She flicked at the buttons and I wondered how many songs she had. I wondered which ones were her favorites.

She glanced at me again. I smiled at her and then I closed my eyes.

moral of the story

If we were in Japan, our ipods would send out signals to each other, and we’d know when we were near another person who likes the same songs that we do.

But we’re not in Japan. So all we can do is imagine, and then empathize.

Right?

I had nightmares all last night. First, a crazy person I know had swelled to eight feet in height and was trying to get at me through the chain-bolted door. The instruction manual said that, to make her go away, I had to throw my cat into another yard. I grabbed my cat and ran it out the patio door, threw it over the fence. She scaled the fence and stared at me through the chain links. “Why are you doing this?” she said. I sighed, because I knew it wasn’t worth explaining, because cats don’t understand superstitions.

Later, the psycho came in and made a magical talking worm start telling me about its depression. Boring!

Last night, I lived in my boss’s house, which is nightmare enough. I couldn’t stop working until a visiting client requested that I play golf. Okay. I got ready. First, I had to check on my boss’s wife’s baby. Then, oh my god, there were giant lizards in the courtyard. Red and gold. I ran to tell my boss and he did nothing. Then, the lizards were growing, became big and ornate like Chinese dragons. Hungry ones. Mean. There were children all around them, laughing and teasing obliviously. The boss’s wife’s baby was heavy on my hip, needed to be put down for a nap. Why was I the only one concerned? Why wasn’t anyone helping?

I think this medication I’m on (cabergoline) is making me have crazy dreams, because I have them every night, all night long.

recent common dream themes

1. I have to live with my boss, or at my workplace. (This means work takes up a lot of my time.)

2. I have two houses, one in the suburbs that I can afford, and a new one in the city that’s beautiful but small and possibly unsafe. I wonder why I accidentally bought the city house, and if I can afford it. (This is related to my desires/fear regarding my day job v my writing career.)

3. I have to deal with kittens or cats. (Used to think this meant responsibilities, but now I think it means creative projects.)

4. I find out my house secretly has a lot of awesome rooms with antique furniture, and I’m excited, but then I find out my ex-husband lives with us and I have to put up with him if I want to explore the rooms. (Same meaning as Number 2, I’m sure.)

And that’s all. That’s all. No sex, no romance, no flying, no chase scenes. Just the same old worries about my work. And monsters. And babies, and kittens. Jesus Christ. That’s why I’m a morning person: I wake up early to escape all that work and get myself some rest.

why I hate Tarot.com

I’m starting to suspect that Rick Levine, who writes the daily horoscopes for Google via Tarot.com, has a Capricorn acquaintance who he hates. A lot. Because I’m Capricorn, and my horoscope is always negative as hell. Even when it’s good, it’s bad. Old Rick finds a way to ruin it for me. Like: “Capricorn, today you will win the lottery and have sex with anyone you want, with no respite. But don’t get too excited yet. Venus is in the Seventh House, which means you should probably look in the mirror and ask why someone who’s as much of an asshole as you deserves anything good at all.”

You know? I need to find another horoscope, that sounds as true but that’s more diplomatic.

classic guilty pleasures

I discovered a new guilty pleasure. Well, I rediscovered a recurring one: Riding in my car alone, singing aloud to ’70s rock songs. This is especially pleasurable now that I have a boyfriend who’s a little younger than me, who therefore can’t tolerate any music without synthesizers.

The other day, on my 1.25 hour commute home, I ran into a good string of singable classic dinosaurs. Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California,” which has nice octave-jumping lows and highs for me. Then Styx’s “Renegade,” which is cheesy as hell, but so awesome to wail along with. Then, one of my faves, Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time.”

After that, the DJ says, “And that was Foreigner, number 7 on Rolling Stone’s Guilty Pleasures Band List.”

And I’m like, “WTF??”

So this morning I tell my boyfriend about that, and I passionately declare that anyone who calls Foreigner a guilty pleasure is just a little bitch who’s too afraid of the opinions of others. And my boyfriend says, “I bet Styx is on that list.” And I say, “I like Styx,” and he says, “I know.”

And he says, “I bet Journey’s on it, for sure.” And I think about that and admit, “That would be a guilty pleasure.”

And I brush my teeth, and I think some more, and then it hits me. “I hope Rush isn’t on the list. I mean, I know it has to be. But I really love Rush.”

My boyfriend nods. He knows. He’s heard me sing “By-Tor & the Snow Dog.” He didn’t want to see that far into my soul, but he had to live through it, for love.

So, this morning, I call up the list. And, guess who’s number one.

Damn you, Rolling Stone. Damn you with all the speed of the red barchetta that Geddy Lee’s uncle gave him.