Clocked Out

and writing now, though still at work. I've had such great ideas lately—last lines, or phrases, or titles—everything just bubbling in my head and I think "this is such a good idea, I know I'll remember it" and I don't. I'm thinking of all the little poems-that-never-were out there, in the land of smoke and honey, that won't be written because of my procrastination.
I've read a handful of poems, too, by other people that I think are so much like ones I've written, only of course they are better, being in the New Yorker and all. I grow poem-paranoid, think "hmmm I wonder if they somehow read my poem X to get their poem Y." Which is, I know, the fatal flaw of hubris. Though this is less like true hubris, I think, than just plain crazy thinking. But it's nice to have these kindred-spirit moments, to read something and know that maybe someone thought the same way or felt the way I did, if only for a second.
I'd ask how you are doing, but you aren't telling, are you?
Memorizing a good deal, too. I'm determined to build myself a mental library filled with Dickinson. She's very easy to memorize, but her lines yield new fruit with each repetition.
I wish I could get all my ducks in a row without feeling that one was a bit crooked, then going over to check, tripping over three other ducks on the way over so that, in the end, my row has disappeared and is just random ducks.

Monday Night Blues

I wish I had a shiny mouth harp
'cause I'd sing me some Monday night blues.

dfja; coffee?

I was smack in the middle of a hallmark-inspired dream when Cleo so rudely pawed my door. I was laying in fields of clover with Wilson and House, talking about poetry. Together, they make the perfect man. I loved House but would die before I told him because he'd just mock me. Then I found out that my sister's baby (I feel superstitiously like jinxing this if I type it out) was going to be stillborn and I was sobbing but went about my work (I worked at the hospital, I guess—I had a white jacket but I knew I was no doctor). I go to see her, and House is there. He's operating on the baby—he's removed it from the womb. He says "it's a boy" and I'm crying insanely, repeat "It's a boy, it's a boy." He's somehow got the baby's heart beating, and I feel then as though I've witnessed a miracle, because it was not alive a few minutes ago. An orderly says the police are coming, that they are coming for House for doing this, and yet again I'm crying because it just seems like the supreme act of love for him to have done this. He looks at me and tells me to put the finger in the baby's mouth, quickly, to get the baby to begin sucking. I do, and the baby turns from blue to pink. The police disappear, and I am amazed and worshipping.

parakeet

why should anyone feel grief for a dying parakeet? why should anyone drive home, talking to a sister for 45 minutes who knows about the dying bird, but not a word, and me talking about tomato juice and poetry.
then I drive up to the house, after a day of snow, thinking to ask if Cleo's been out in it yet, wondering about her reaction and whether or not she romped. and i walk into the garage and my mom is sitting there and she says "Rachel" in that tone I know—that tone that says "I have something really, really bad to tell you so prepare yourself," and I said "what?", panicked, and she said "Lady Fig got out of her cage today and I think she's dying."
i couldn't go in the house. i couldn't see that little bird crushed and struggling to breathe. my excitement at what the dog thought of the snow turned in an instant into total grief, and blame, because I saw a few days ago that the latch on the bird cage door was loose and thought I'll mention it to dad, and he'll fix it, and forgot.
and the worst feeling is, after walking in—after telling my dad to put the cage and the bird somewhere outside of the house--anywhere, just not in the house, and I don't know why I felt that way--but after walking in, Cleo was so happy I was home. She ran to my bedroom door with her big teddy bear and I slammed the door in her face--I caught her in the door and she cried. And I felt so awful, so guilty for hurting this dog, who killed my parakeet. She did what dogs do. Dogs like birds, and not as friends. So I opened my door and Cleo jumped on my bed and began suckling on her teddy bear and now she's lying on her back, her legs akimbo and she doesn't know that she killed a living thing I loved, and it is impossible to blame her for it.

I dreamed of a mocha frappuccino

My heart hurts. I just found out someone I was once infatuated with (someone explain the difference between infatuation and love) is married and has a child. It's strange, feeling at all hurt by this. The wound had healed--it was just a tiny scar. If only he had been nice to me; I would have gotten to know him, really known him, and become quickly indifferent.
My forehead's hot. I think I have a fever. My face feels sunburned. It's silly to put silly people on pedestals. It's silly to put anyone on a pedestal. I won't do it anymore!
Yes I will. I am doing it. But they're all better people than that married man. I'm improving, slowly.
I hate wedding rings. I see a ring on a finger and some nerve ending in my brain begins to fire. I see "unattainable" written all over a man, and suddenly I think he's wonderful.
Who are the attainable men? Who could I actually deign to love who would ever really love me back?

Tea for Two

I see you.
I’ve always seen you.
I’ve seen you walking past a woman
with red hair; often you have smiled
as you passed but never raised your eyes.
I’ve seen you sit alone
at dinner, or for tea,
my solitary darling, nibbling
your biscotti and careful of crumbs.
I see you now.
You scratch your nose. You tap
your foot to the rhythm of some internal song
(something in ¾ time, I think).
You do not know you do these things,
but, of course, you do.
I imagine walking through the door, or wall,
which separates you and me.
What conversations we would have!
I think we’d be content to gaze at one another
in congenial silence. You might take
my hand. You wouldn’t be You anymore,
nor I, I.

The Mourning Doves

I dreamed of mourning doves yesterday. There was a pair of them--in my dream, it was important to know they are monogamous, so this particular set had paired off for life. The male dove was ill--he could no longer fly well, and rather than leave him, the female dove flew nervously around him, pushing him gently with her beak, trying to get him up and flying. It was no use. He was in distress, flapping and dying, and she stayed with him, though he had perched on a picnic table and was easy prey for my dog, who I was walking as I observed them. 

The female became listless. It seemed to me that she was willing herself to die because she knew her life-mate--the bird she'd chosen to nest with for her life--was dying. She no longer cared. If she did not get eaten by a dog or a cat, she'd just lie down there and starve.

I saw this and was horrified by it--and at the same time, was powerless. I don't know why. I had no way to help the male, who was beyond human care, and I knew no matter what I did, the female would grieve over him.

Two pigeons flew over to the mourning doves, and began tussling the female, trying to get her to fly away, to save herself. She wouldn't. She let them peck at her. So the pigeons took the male dove, who had died, in their beaks and flew away with him. They knew the female would follow her dead mate, that perhaps they could get her up higher and give her a fighting chance.

I woke after that--I don't know what happened to the female mourning dove--and though I was just an observer, I could feel her grief--this horrible, deep, overwhelming grief that your life is ending because someone else's has.

Master -

I've thought of you this morning - though coffee has spilled -

the dog woke me in the dark.

It's late morning - there - and must be beautiful - 

though the flowers there - neglected -

to tell you - 

Perhaps the light is thin?

What are you doing, sir? Please to tell your heart -

the keeper -

as she pleases -

won't you tell me how you do?

Self Portrait of Girl in Dream

Self Portrait of Girl in Dream

 

The banana trees were in bloom,

their broad leaves just beginning

to split and curl.

Dozens of tropical birds

the size of condors

with bright blue plumage

and hooked bills

perched together in a leafless tree.

 

Then you appeared, in a nightgown

too sheer for modesty.

The morning light penetrated

cotton, kissed your pale flesh,

and you spread seed

for the strange birds.

 

A cavatina of Mozart’s played—

first from your stereo, then from the sky itself—

(the girl in the song sings

I have lost it! Where is it?)

and the birds began to swoop.

They were molting, and you stopped throwing

seed and picked up a long blue contour feather.

Blood soaked the quill like ink.

This frightened you, and you ran into the house.

 

Oh, where is it? Where is it?

You looked out the windows to see a rush

of blue and red. The birds blocked sky,

beat their wings against the door for entrance.

You thought only of your dog,

and tucked her, murmuring endearments,

into the linen closet.

 

The cerulean sky calmed.

You, charming girl in white, opened the door

and peeked—the birds had flown away, or disappeared.

Laughing, you ran into the grass,

noticing only then there was no green:

carpeting the ground instead were finches,

sparrows, thrushes, their bodies

twisted, broken, with their blood,

still warm, and feathers, on your feet.

 

More Dreams

More vivid dreams. I'm sitting here, trying to reimagine them to type out, and they're already fading away. Though disjointed, I'll tell the dream in the order I remember it.

I sat in a paneled room with my father. I was dressed in mourning black--a dress from the 1850s, like Emily Dickinson wore in her deguerrotype, with a cinched waist, full skirt, and those bell-shaped oversleeves that cut off mid-arm--beneath them was a white linen sleeve.

Anyhow, I sat demurely in this place--a restaurant--and noticed a woman dressed much like me. She asked me if I had read the obituary of her child. I said no. She told me her baby girl had just died suddenly, that the only thing they could figure was a sudden brain fever, because one day she was fine and the next day she was dead. I felt sorry for her.

Through memory, I know without there being a story line that I'm in mourning for this woman's son. We'd been engaged, but he has died at war (civil war, I guess).  Months after his death, I begin clearing away the things I had of his, and found a box I hadn't opened, with a letter inside. It was from HIS brother, declaring his love for me. 

I remember his name--Robert Browning--though I'm not clear whether he was THE poet or just a poet. He was handsome and young. Though I didn't feel I could tell him I welcomed his affection without betraying the memory of his brother, I wanted to, so much.

Unfortunately, his father had pressed him into marriage for money, and because he believed I had ignored his letter, he had married this girl. Seeing no honest future for our love, I accepted the suit of one Rhett Butler. He was vital and handsome--I grew to love him more than Robert, but couldn't see it.

The war came--there were explosions, flashes of light--and we knew we had to evacuate. A doctor who had a grudge against Robert had pressed pills on me filled with poison, told me it was a quick death. I thought about giving all of us these pills--escaping the world. We drove together--Robert and his wife in the back seat, Rhett and me in the front. Before we drove, a soldier from the enemy poured vodka on the car-carpet and said he was going to blow us up. I gave my best Southern smile and pleaded with him. I asked Rhett if we were going to die. He said no, and gave me a shotglass filled with vodka. I drank a few of them, then positioned myself to drive. I remember being in that same black dress, and how heavy my skirts were. I had these buttoned boots on and it took a lot of effort to get my legs where I wanted them to be.

We stopped for a break and Robert offers us drinks. I seem him break open a pill--the same kind I have, the poison--and realize he's betraying us. Rhett sees it too. He throws Robert out of the car--I beg him not to hurt him--and I take the pill and see that inside is not poison, but rubies. He's smuggling rubies out--deceitful, but no betrayal. Still, I through their things out and toss the rubies into the driveway. "Search for them," I said.

Rhett comforts me--he knows how I loved Robert--as I sob and reverse and drive off. Rhett and I stay away for years--I think Mexico--when I come back, I hear the story of how Robert's wife had gone mad after we'd gone, and how he became a hermit. Then, not myself anymore but watching the story, I hear how my story ends--how I lose two children after childbirth and die after losing the second is too much to bear. 

Dreams

I had the most vivid dreams last night, and they were so sweet. I'd forgotten how full of verisimilitude (word of the day) dreams can be--how they can echo real emotion so that when you wake you forget for a minute that you have another life--your real life--and the dream was the lie. And the thing you'd learned to cherish in your dream wasn't yours, or didn't exist. And you're heartbroken for a second, then get up and brush your teeth.
I dreamed I wanted to have a baby and had decided on a timeline to procure one (the natural way). I loved someone I've loved before and he loved me. He visited me and I knew he loved me--but he had another life he could not abandon. So I cried, then cried some more. He cried too.
Another man enters--I agree to ex-patriate for him. My new skyline is beautiful--a city surrounded by mountains and green. I run across a skyscraper rooftop and bound into his arms. He gives me an emerald hatpin and kisses me.
And then there was the baby. Just flashes of a face, of a feeling before he comes. It was sweet. It was hard to lose even the dream of him. Of them both.

Can it really be six-thirty?

You would think that a person would eventually fall asleep while lying in the dark, nice and incubated from the cold (snuggling under a blanket neither too thick nor too thin). But it hasn't happened for me, not since I woke up two hours ago. Blasted dog who is now lying outside of my bedroom door, waiting patiently for me to open the door and let her in. In about fifteen minutes, she'll lose her patience and begin pawing. Though her paws are more like punches.
I'm dreaming of scrambled eggs right now. With butter in them. And toast. Glorious breakfast food. She who is about to die salutes you.
(Note: I'm about to die only in the sense that I am mortal and thus am dying. But I won't think about that deeply right now, here in the dark, before the sun has made any headway.)
The birds still sing--they'll go on singing--and that's a comfort.
I can't make many of my dreams reality--I have no money for a MacBook--but I can make scrambled eggs. Which I shall presently do.
Ah, my cue. Cleo is knocking.

Rachel Reischling for president!

Or better yet, let's abolish democracy and set up an absolute monarchy. I would rule fairly, unless someone made me mad, and then they'd pay.
Or better than better yet, I'll become an karaoke singer of Fiona Apple's cover of "Across the Universe." I'll appear in cities across the country and become famous for my sultry yet innocent voice. I'll never want for anything again.
I do want--I want for everything. And I don't want to have to work for it. I want to be handed things, sparkly things, and to be agreed with and smiled at, but by no means condescended to. And though it may not be pretty, it's perfectly acceptable to end a sentence with a preposition.
I don't think I want to be a writer anymore. I don't think I ever was a writer. I think it was all a silly affectation that was carried on for too long. When I type that out it sounds harsh and my feelings are hurt, which is crazy since I said it to myself.
I see the same face in the mirror that I always have. It hasn't changed a great deal yet. It makes me feel exempt from adult responsibility. And somebody in this room who isn't me has smelly shoes.

Insomnia

I can't sleep. At 9 pm, this isn't such a tragedy. I have energy. I do work. Youtube is appealing and the night is young. At 1 am, my eyes are bleary, the television is on mute, the bird has her head tucked in her wing, and I am terrifyingly awake. 

I begin strange quests this late at night. I'm a northwest airlines skymile Don Quixote. Thirty minutes in, this loses its luster. I move to finding restaurant deals in or near Columbus. Not many. Should I move on now to that online sweepstakes site or the site with free samples? This late at night, I realize I should be taking a vitamin D supplement. I make a vow to start doing that tomorrow. 

Conversations with Greg

The beginnings of a novella, I think. My magnum opus. To be posted when technical difficulties are resolved...

Time Flies When You're Not Having Fun

Well, it's been seven months since I've written anything here. My life of note ran out of pages there for a while. 

Rachel: Greg, I'm bored.

Greg: I'm sorry to hear that. Want me to put this show back on?

Rachel: Why do you only want to pacify me?

Greg: Well, you're bored. I thought you could do with some entertainment.

Rachel: That's all you have to say for yourself? Entertain me.

Greg: I'm reading.

Rachel: You're mean.

Greg: I'm not mean.

Rachel: Talk to me.

Greg: What about? My parents are leaving Sunday for Florida. Isn't that exciting.

Rachel: No.

Greg: Perhaps not. More exciting for me really.

*silence. Greg reads.*

Rachel: Greg?

Greg: Huh?

Rachel: I'm bored.

Greg: I know. What are you going to do about that?

Rachel: What do you want me to do? (suggestively)

Greg: Get un-bored.

Rachel: Wow! What a great idea.

*Greg nods. Greg goes back to his Dungeons and Dragons-themed book*

This is my life. This is really my life. Enjoy!