I have been carrying a lot of ghosts around with me today, some friendlier than others. Chris, as every year, is called to mind in January when blood oranges are in season.

I have a test day on Wednesday at what I hope will be my new workplace- I made blood orange macarons for the interview and they came out perfectly, like biting into a fresh orange. Like an escape from the winter to someplace warm. Topped with a sparkling slice of candied orange, died blood red. What a sparkling haunting. What promise seems to hang in the January air. The wind has been so strong recently, and everyone’s cheeks are bitten red.

I am filled with hope, and anxiety, and sugar. I am bundled up in scarves and sweaters.

Chris was not the first person I lost to suicide, nor was he the last. We’ve all seen too much death.

We’ve all been bitten by the cold.

…..

Crisis Hotline Austria: 142

National Suicide Hotline USA: 1-800-273-8255

Every time I go to crop a selfie it offers me the prompt to “straighten” the photo, and it always makes me laugh. Because I can edit all I want, but this bisexual disaster is always going to slant a little bit queer.

I don’t want to eat,
I want to sit around being fragile
And subsist on sparkling water
I want there to be something left in my day
That glitters.

I want to turn the internet off, open the windows,
And listen to yesterday’s thunderstorm.
I want the rain to wash the sidewalks away with the hours,
To return me to the twilight of yesterday, before we…

I want to do yesterday over again:
To do nothing. To do more, to do less,
To speak up when I was hurting.
When you were hurting me.

I want to have never started, or to have lingered
In the moment, after the first time I asked you to stop
Before I said “Where is the dominant guy who threw me over the desk?”
I want to have stayed there- in your surprisingly gentle arms,
To have fallen asleep.

I want to be the worst kind of hypocrite, I want a cigarette.
After your tobacco breath and all my complaints-
I want to hang my head out the window and blow the smoke into the January air,
Watch it curl toward the cobblestones on the courtyard
Like a woman descending spiral stairs.

The French have a word for this. Usually, it’s the Germans,
Coming in with vocabulary lacking in English.
But today it’s the French:
L’espirit de l’escalier
The ghost of the things we should have said.

I have so much left to say to you.
I want our story to keep going, too.

…

An addition to the poem:

I remembered tonight that my ultimate dream vacation
A trip aboard the Orient Express,
Runs from Istanbul
to Paris.

Maybe one day we will go.

Maybe one day I will look back and realize I was always heading toward you.

This blog is slowly becoming a love letter to anxiety, as anxiety is slowly becoming a long-lost-lover of mine.

Look at me, chubby and smiling and feeling absolutely gorgeous.

Look at me, dare I say it, relaxing.

I’ve been listening to love songs as ever, but for the first time in forever there’s no longing. Just the comfortable exhale of a woman who trusts that he is going to call her.

I trust this one, he’s got me glowing.

You make me want to wait.

You make me want to erase

every man before you.

You make me want

to be a good woman.

You make me want to be holy.

Evidently, if you play your cards right, the locals in Austria waltz at midnight. So I spent the first minutes of 2022 gasping from laughter, swept off my feet in the emerald green silk gown I chose to wear.

I waltzed my way into midnight.

2021 was a trash fire, and I am standing beside it basking in the glow, but 2022 is looking awfully good from here.

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The moon was awfully bright tonight, and it reminded me of missing you. Which is not to say I miss you.

But the fact is, you’re so far away.

Some impossibly expensive plane ticket away.

I wish you would call me.

We were always best like this, at a distance, exhausted, a candle burnt at both ends. It was hard to sleep without you, maybe it’s harder to sleep without you in the same city.

This is just a series of hardships, slowly decreasing in severity.

Which is to say. I don’t miss you like I used to.

But the moon makes me feel like I should be.

I’ve been saying,

We’re only still married by fault of a piece of paper,

a pair of names on the mailbox,

And another set on the doorbell.

They took our names off the doorbell.

I am burnt out, yet electric. I’m not sure what happened in the last week to set this strange collision off. Perhaps I just had a reason to be creative (the interview), perhaps I had a multitude of anxieties (the interview), perhaps my young lover…(redacted, for decency).

Perhaps I am just here to brag.
To smile, to tuck a yellow rose behind my ear.

The sexiest thing I’ve seen recently?
A screenshot of an email from the Handsome Devil
about the little trip we planned,
showing he had already arranged gluten-free meals for me.

If you’re looking for the sexy part of that sentence, it’s: “he had already“.
If you’re looking for the sexy part of that sentence, you’re probably a guy.

The involuntary gasps from my friends when I showed them said it all:
We love a competent man.
As I’ve said before, the bar for men is so low it’s a tavern in hell.
But we love a competent man.

As I’ve said before, I’ve been sitting at the oak-and-leather bar of the Tavern in Hell,
drinking watered down gin and pretending to have a good time.

He makes it so easy to show him off. I love a planner.
Perhaps that’s the issue: I keep showing him off.
A picture is worth a thousand words,
and the expression I make when I text him is worth at least twice as much.
“Ooooh, what’s Alessandra doing? Her face says it all.”

Everyone who loves me wants to see the queen of puppy-love in another love story.
Maybe, after the last year, everyone is rooting for the underdog.
I may be the underdog,
but I am also the Ladybug of the Christmas Market.

After all the input from my friends, I considered it.
Considered him. Considered if he was worth dating.
I hate to disappoint, but this is not a love story.
It’s a leaflet of smut, tucked beneath a mattress.
It’s not love, but it’s glorious.

“I just want to keep things like they are.”
Absolutely, Sir. Zero complaints.
Keep things as they are: without obligation.
I’m not his, he’s not mine.
I have conned my way into a gloriously good time.

So I’m still sitting at the bar, in the Tavern in Hell,
But I’ve upgraded to sherry cask whiskey.
I’m seated next to the Handsome Devil.
His hand is subtly grazing my knee.
The music on the jukebox changed, and I’m tapping my toe to the beat.

I’m sitting at the bar of the Tavern in Hell,
Still waiting for the right guy to ask me to dance.

Christmas in Love

Nick, evil CEO, is in town to buy out Ellie’s Christmas Kringle factory. He’s exchanged his Big-City-Italian-Suit for an appropriate uniform, complete with shoe covers, hair net, and gloves. Ellie, on the other hand, is in full Christmas glam- her long blonde hair free-flowing into those Christmas Kringles. Yummy. Evidently, her homespun charm exempts her from stringent health codes followed by everyone else at the factory. Oh, and those adorable Christmas baubles hanging over the mixer won’t be quite so cute crushed up in a pastry, but this is small-town America, and we like our food authentic, and absolutely riddled with adulterants.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: C, for Christmas

A Gingerbread Romance

Chef Annabelle Renard, the supposed villain of this story, is the only character who gives a damn about her clients’ health. She is also the only person in this movie capable of pulling her hair back. Meanwhile, architect Taylor and single dad/hunky baker Adam have teamed up to build a giant gingerbread house. Do they utilize child labor to do so? Yes. Do they even once don a pair of gloves? No. Does everyone get the promotion they dreamed of? You bet.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: P, for Promotion.

Ice Sculpture Christmas

Callie, an aspiring chef and future poisoner, has been unwittingly entered into an ice carving contest against her boss and his villainous sous chef. How do we know the sous chef is a villain? Her hair is pulled back. What do you think this is, a big city? We don’t believe in hair elastics around here. What we do believe is that every single room should contain at least four fully decorated Christmas trees.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: J, for Jingle.

Murder She Baked: A Plum Pudding Mystery

Hannah Swensen, baker and unlicensed gumshoe, has found herself in a caper. Well, to start off, her sous chef plates croissants for service without wearing gloves. Oh, and THERE IS A DEAD BODY. She VISITS A CRIME SCENE and then returns to the bakery, without washing her hands. Eat your heart out, Ignaz Semmelweis. Despite all this, upon entering her kitchen, Hannah actually pulls her hair back into a ponytail.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: M, for Murder.

I went Christmas shopping with my friend D. today, in search of stocking stuffers and an escape from the confines of our respective apartments. We found ourselves in front of the Tom Ford counter, and she gave me the eye.

“Didn’t the guy wear…?”

“Yeah. He did. But I am not thinking about him. Definitely not thinking about him.”

I say, staring at the bottle of his cologne.

“Yeah, sure. Which one was it?”

“That one, the tobacco vanilla one. It’s like fucking catnip for me. When he put it on I basically just wanted to lick him.”

“And did you?”

“Actually, no. He was a little hot-and-cold in that department.”

The saleswoman grabs the bottle, and goes to spray it on a tester, but I shake my head at her and reach out my arm, pulling back my glove to reveal my wrist.

D. says, “They have it at the commissary for like half price.”

My nose is pressed to my wrist, and I mumble at her from behind my palm,

“Yeah, mmhhmm, half price of way-too-fucking-much. But, I might need you to buy me a bottle. I don’t need the guy- I can just buy the damn perfume.”

“Or you could just keep fucking him knowing you’ll go home smelling like it.”

“Yeah, that’s super practical, completely logical. No, it’s not happening. I’m through with him.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, you seem really through with him.”

“Shut up. Ugh, I can’t escape him- he said it himself. His name showed up on the Bee yesterday. That word game I play.”

“I can set you up with my investment manager, I bet he smells nice.”

“I told you, I don’t care if the guy has money- is he a good person? Not a “nice guy”- a good person.”

“Well, he seems very laid back for having such a large trust fund.”

“I really don’t think you’re hearing me: not-interested-in-rich-dudes. Just buy me the damn perfume.”

God, I am a bit of a mess today. Actually, I’m not, I’m perfect, I’m exceeding expectations. My life is pretty neatly managed at the moment, I’ve got my shit together. I worked incredibly hard, it paid off. I also just want to cry a little- but I can’t, because my makeup looks flawless. I am having a fantastic day, excuse me while I…sob?

To be fair, I did bonk my head on a drawer while I was grabbing the laundry. But it was a sort of charming, movie-quality clumsy. I’m having a delightful day, really.

I think I am just nervous about the interview tomorrow. And, you know, nervous about the gaping maw of the unplanned future.

This year has been an exercise in learning that plans, no matter how secure they may seem, are prone to change. So I will have to settle for dreams, goals, and god forbid, hope.

Now I want to cry and vomit. Lovely.

You’re not possessive, at least not so far, but when I set a risqué post to draft- I realized I was curating my smut. That perhaps we have something going that I don’t want to risk fucking up.

This cursed blog has always been a corner for unedited musings, reckless abandon, and the heart-on-my-sleeve ramblings that befit me. A junkyard of brutal honesty. I am a foghorn of a woman, calling men to shore with a warning. The most off-key singer of any siren, the most asthmatic mermaid. I’ve been on the beach, waiting.

Hey Sailor, come home to me.

Best of luck to any man I go quiet on. Your girl is not a gambler. Your girl.

There’s this old movie, this old broadway show, really. Funny Girl. Fanny Brice falls for Nicky Arnstein, prince charming and poker player, he shows up wearing a starched collar and he brings her yellow roses. She follows him across an ocean, wilted roses in hand. He gambles her fortune into oblivion. She bets everything on him, and loses.

I’m pretty good at asking for exactly what I want- until I really want something. Until it’s a thing I am afraid to lose. I am not a gambler. Never take a bet from me.

But, I realized tonight that maybe, just maybe, I should shut up for once. Maybe, you are a man I am afraid to lose.

Perhaps that’s a compliment, perhaps you complement me.

Perhaps I’ll publish the risqué post anyway.

Perhaps I don’t have to be silent for you to chase me. To choose me.

Maybe we should be adults, should talk it out, maybe I should extend this metaphor beyond its grasp- put my cards on the table, and such. Is this an ocean or a poker table? It’s both- it’s Funny Girl. The metaphor makes more sense if you’ve seen the film.

Maybe, if you want me to be your girl, you should tell me before I get anxious and fuck everything up.

Maybe, if I want to be your girl, I should just do it.

I dreamt of my mother last night. I had foster children and she was helping me move them into the house. It was wonderful, she was a great help. I bounced a boy on my hip. Maybe it’s because I wrapped the gifts for my godchildren before bed? Who knows. But mom was there, we made pleasant chit-chat, she laughed at my jokes.

Of course I miss her laugh, this is the thing everyone misses about their dead mother.

Anyways, it’s been a long time since she died, and for years after I waited to dream of her- and when I finally did we were always fighting, screaming at each other. Then years later she would appear, but I would remember she was dead, and awake in a panic, hyperventilating, having tried to warn her.

I know a lot of people who lost their mothers, some more recently than others. When mine died, my boss told me “You’ll have the dreams, you know, and sometimes it hurts in the dream and other times when you wake up- just try and enjoy it.”

So, to my friends who are in the same position, I want you to know: You’ll have the dreams, you’ll see her, enjoy the visit.

Who has two thumbs, spent too much money on his Christmas gift, and totally-doesn’t-have-feelings-for-him? This liar.

EURYDICE IS BLOOMING!

Okay, perhaps she isn’t blooming, but this little troublemaker is growing flower buds! She’s budding! In mid-December! A Christmas miracle!

My little minx, joyful and abundant despite the cold. I am so fucking proud of her. I am so proud of myself. I have never kept a plant alive let alone coaxed one out of hibernation. Oh, sweet Eurydice, I am your Orpheus, my dear, or perhaps I am your Hades, either way- I brought you back from the dead. I am, with not a hint of exaggeration, ecstatic.

My god, what a delight! This little lady, always such a metaphor for my life.

Today, I went for a walk with the man who bought her for me. When I ended things with him, all her flowers fell off. I had to look at her every day and think of him. Now I see only her, all her determination, I see myself. What a thing it is, to be a flower blooming in winter, blushing from the cold.

I walked with him, through parks and past multiple accordion players, the romance determined follow us, but I am immune now. I was there for polite conversation, and I had a pleasant time. He’s a fine friend, it’s been long enough.

Towards the end of our walk, my phone was vibrating a bit wildly. “Sorry my phone is blowing up let me check it.” I peeked at the screen, and the overwhelming smile on my face gave me away. He just laughed,

“Ah wow, your smile! Well, I will let you get back to…whatever that is about..um, yeah, you sort of make it clear, your face does…”

“Haha, yes, um…I am seeing someone, and he’s very good to me. He makes me really happy.”

“I can see!”

We parted ways, polite hugs goodbye, Then I went home to find Eurydice, looking just as radiant as I.

What a good omen.

I can’t wait to see just what she’s foretelling.

Come over here and love me already.

I think you kind of do.

I don’t know if I am lovable anymore, I’m so ready for it, it’s unbecoming.

I am un-becoming, coming undone,

My skin aches for human touch

Yet Saturday I had a gorgeous girl in my bed and

She was begging to stay,

And I could only tell her to leave.

I forgot how to trust anything.

I should

Sleep.

I should

Sleep around less.

I should

Have left his place.

I should

Maybe not have posted about our crazy sex.

I should

Stop thinking about exes.

I should

Not delude myself into thinking

That a man who

Ignored me for days on end

Would have stuck around if

I only kept my mouth shut about

Not keeping my

Legs shut.

I should let you love me.

“If you want to kiss me you have to stop smiling so much.”

We’re back at my place, we escaped from the cold weather and the heated protests. First date, lockdown style. We walked through the center and bought some Punsch, and encountered a woman holding a flaming torch.

“So…do you want to go back to my place? This feels like a bad time to be on a lesbian date. All they’re missing is the pitchforks..”

So we went home, and sat on the couch calling each other beautiful for 7 hours.

She said,

“You have a century smile”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I just made it up, but you do. I love your smile when you kiss me, you have so much love in your eyes. I can see that you have a lot of love to give. Do you have a camera? I want to photograph you.”

“I know what you mean. I want to paint you, but I can’t paint portraits. I want to paint on you, blue flowers cascading down your neck.”

“Let me take your picture.”

Look at this little vixen, just THRIVING.

I cut off the dead weight and since then she has been growing so fast it’s like she’s in therapy. Look at this gorgeous troublemaker. She’s living off ice cubes, radiator heat, winter sunlight, and the carbon dioxide of my complaints.

Look at her new stem, cuddling the sunlight.

Eurydice, ever the metaphor for my life. For once, one I am excited about.

Yesterday I got glutened, despite my best efforts at due diligence. It’s the most gluten I have consumed since my diagnosis, and I was upset. I had been having a lovely day, and when I found a gluten-free cake pop I was just about nuclear with joy. But, after eating it, I realized it was too good to be true, and called the bakery to find out I was right. Oops.

I miss New York sometimes, but especially when I find myself crying in public. When a perfectly delightful treat has ruined what was about to be a perfectly lovely weekend. I miss being able to cry on public transit, without so much as a glance in my direction. Or, on the opposite end of the New-York-subway-manners-spectrum: a crumpled tissue and hug from a complete stranger,
“That’s right honey, you just cry it out.”

New York is a great place for mad public sobbing, everything there is both open and shut. The subway is a living room and a locked closet. Public and private, a woman applying her make-up, the mascara wand hovers in her hand while she waits for the train to stop.

I’ve done my fair share of sobbing in Vienna. It’s a cleaner sidewalk to crumble on, I’ll give it that.

On Saturday morning, I languished in bed with a new lover, discussing, as one does these days, the current plague,

“Yeah I had it last year, I got it in the hospital.”

“Wow, you just have everything, asthma, and your knees don’t bend. You’re a wreck.”

It’s not like I had a choice in the matter? I don’t know, it’s fine, it was just an aside. I am just annoyed he was right.

Well, I left Mr. Honesty’s place and made my way to a market in search of new artwork for my apartment. I took down the wedding photos, a long while ago, but there are still hooks hanging on the wall, like the empty frames in the Gardner Museum. Evidence of a robbery. I pushed the thoughts away, about the wreck of my body, and bounced about the market, enjoying my newfound health. And a delightful lunch: french fries in a dedicated fryer! Then a fucking cake pop proved to be my Achilles heel.

I’ve dated rather ferociously the past few months, as evidenced here in my various posts of Sunday night sex poetry. I keep a few handsome playthings in rotation for when my wreck of a body wants to be warm for an evening. They all have their nicknames: The Hunk, the Kid, The Chef. I rarely keep someone around long enough to warrant my friends learning their names. That’s not true, I rarely let someone close enough for my friends to learn their name.

I was furious at the bakery that told me the cake pop was gluten-free, and I posted about it on Instagram. How glamorous, how sexy, to announce to the world news of my poisoning. I am sure that anyone reading it could connect the dots of precisely how my evening turned out, and it’s not exactly glamorous. My stomach was so bloated, the boudoir shoot I planned for Monday would have looked more like a maternity shoot. Welcome to the world, baby Gluten

But, I was surprised by the outpouring of support I got. All the men I have dated who saw the post reached out to me with kind messages, Really kind. Even the ones I don’t talk to anymore, the Professor and such. What a delightful thing, to be surprised by a man’s compassion. Of course, my friends all sent me messages as well. The bar for men’s behavior is so low it’s a tavern in hell.

After what happened a few weeks ago with A., and the IUD, I was jarred. Hurt. It stopped feeling like fun. I tried to laugh it off, but I was furious and scared. I deeply questioned my taste in men. My doctor counseled me that the IUD isn’t 100% effective and I could still be pregnant. “Don’t worry, I’m one of those liberal Boston girls who get abortions” I had told him. It’s not true, and it’s a decision I am grateful I didn’t have to make.

When I was recovering from the procedure, everyone reached out to me, except him. God, what a fucking Saturday that was. Kind messages from my ex-husband and not a whisper from A. Then he dumped me over text on Sunday, with nary an “I hope you’re doing okay” or, I don’t know, “Let me know if you’re pregnant”. I would have settled for “I hope your okay”, a grammatical error befitting him: a mistake.

But, for now, it feels like A. was more an exception than a rule. Even if none of the nicknames has turned into a love story, perhaps my taste in men isn’t quite as terrible as I imagined. They all passed the “basic human decency” test with flying colors. Even Mr. H managed the feat, texting to say he was sorry. I admit it made me smile. I should know better by now. Here I am, seated at the Tavern in hell, drinking watered-down gin, convincing myself I am having a good time.

I won’t wait around long, sustained on bread crumbs. Your girl is hungry.

Perhaps I am unfair to these men, sometimes. Perhaps. It seems a fair exchange though, come over and use my body, and I will use your body: I’ll make you hang Christmas lights. I have somehow accrued a harem of giants. I should buy more high heels.

I know I should have stopped calling F. “The Kid'” a while ago, but when I do it makes me feel a bit like Humphrey Bogart. Say what I will about the Kid, who is unreliable for a rendezvous, he is the most reliably sweet thing to me. Always greeting the day with a “how are you?”, and such. Always rooting for me to find the right one.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

Coffee with Mr. H, it seems. Followed by a mild poisoning.

“You should have come over, I’m certified Gluten-Free.”

I am anxious today, editing the final piece for my writing class and it’s tricky: vulnerable. The critique is more specific, and all the feedback I’ve been given is conflicting. Of course, the editing process itself is tricky, confronting demons and details and all that. A graveyard of darlings and the teacher prodding me for more honesty. More. More. More.

At last, the Christmas lights in Vienna are up. The city turned snowglobe and god, it’s a romantic misery of cold.

The covid numbers are daunting, and I am not sure what to expect. Winter arrived in full form today, announcing that the era of my leather jacket has come to an end. I will miss it, for it gave me power and pockets.

I’m feeling awfully vulnerable these days, but happy sometimes. I’m not short on company, friendly or otherwise, I have a bit too much time on my hands this week, it won’t last long- I should enjoy it. I should let myself enjoy things. I should let myself enjoy you. I have my guard up, it seems.

I am rambling, I am not sure who this post is for, it’s just thought spillover. If you’re still reading, my apologies.

The class focuses quite a bit on the great paradox: “Specific is the best in general”

I think I need to be held. I think I need a walk. I think I want to be held, but need to go for a walk.

I want you to hold me. I want you to spoon me and pull me close, and when I say “I should head home”, I want you to pull me closer and gently wrestle my underwear off as I try to put it back on. I want you to kiss my neck and leave a mark, so I can text you about it and pretend I am annoyed, smiling all the while.

Yes, on an island off the coast of Italy there grows a mythical olive tree. Countless men have died trying to reach it. Journey there, in the port, you will meet a raven-haired woman with a one-eyed dog. To the dog, you must feed a piece of your own flesh. To the woman, you must reveal your deepest secret. If you do so, she will provide you a map to the island. It’s a two-day sail from the harbor, past schools of sirens. The tree itself is atop a mountain, climb it, and find the tree. In the tree nests a silver dove, with her baby chicks. Each of the three chicks will ask you a riddle. Answer the riddles correctly, and the dove will allow you a cutting from the tree. Bring me the topmost branch.

Or, just bring me flowers, yellow roses are my favorite.

A year ago I was in the hospital, so sick I was sure I would die. So sick, I wrote a will and an informal goodbye.

What I wrote then

A year later, and I had a lot to say on the matter, I wrote myself a long letter, but I don’t know how much of it is worth sharing here.

Most of all, I want the Alessandra of one year ago to know: you are still here.

“How are you today?”

“I think if I drink another coffee I can emit a pulse which annihilates every straight cis man in Vienna.”

“That good, huh?”

“But you were nice to me yesterday, so this is your warning that the Reckoning is coming some time this afternoon, after I meet this deadline. I suggest you move beyond the city limits, swiftly.”

I just need to get through mid-term exams, announce to the world that indeed I am getting a divorce, and indeed I am staying in Vienna (or doing my best to stay). Then I need to disappear into the abyss for a few days, turn off my phone, run the ink dry on a pen, or three.

Hey Gorgeous, do you want to come with me?

“Don’t ever drink coffee after 9p.m., that’s how you were made. ”

“Always wear delicate red lipstick on a date. Otherwise, you’re always kissable, too kissable. The lipstick is war paint. I let myself be kissable, that’s how I had you.”

“Don’t read books, next thing you’ll start talking about books with other people. You know what that gets you? Pregnant is what it gets you. And library fees!”

“Be quiet. You know who was a great conversationalist? Your father. You know what that got him? That’s right: you, it got him you.”

“Only date someone your own height. That way, you always know you’re at kissing height and your defenses will be up. The tall ones are surprisingly sneaky and charming. One second I was looking up, the next I was pregnant.”

“You should have seen my hips before I had you. I went on two dates with a giant, and this is what I get. Jaqueline and the goddamn beanstalk.” 

“You know what?! DON”T clean your room! In fact, never clean your apartment, you’ll just invite someone back to it, and next thing you know, you’ll have someone like you, and be screaming at them to CLEAN THEIR ROOM!”

…

For those wondering, I am now a card-carrying member of the gold IUD club. They literally gave me a gold card with the serial number of my IUD on it. I had to have it put in as emergency contraception, because hormonal birth control was no longer an option for me after hormonal BC caused me to grow a small benign liver tumor. I had to have it put in on a rush on a Friday afternoon right as the doctor’s office was closing, without dilation or numbing, and I SCREAMED at the pain and almost passed out. To quote my doctor “Are you still alive?” I am. At least I (probably) won’t be screaming at a real child, for a while. But maybe someday, when I am ready, and I promise to never treat a real child like the imaginary one in this little post.

It’s a strange thing, to invite you in,
To ask you to stay.
To let you hear me snore-
To let my breath escape.

You know you yell in your sleep? A sort of half-scream. It’s scary.

I keep telling you to relax.
I’m a hypocrite on multiple counts,
A mugshot of smeared lipstick and a half-finished glass.
I’m not trying to get you drunk, I’m just trying to get to know you.

I think you’re cute, but I’m not trying to get you pregnant yet.

You’re not particularly nice to me. Evidently that’s my thing.
Men who are scruffy and vaguely mean.
Maybe it’s my kink?

Nah, my kink is people that hold me.
My kink is men who make me feel safe.

I don’t want to fall asleep yet, but we should cool down.

I am apprehensive, and hungry.
I am many things.
I am weird, you keep reminding me.

You did all the right things, but
Succumbing to coming is particularly intimate,
It’s a rare feat, for me, on the first time.
The rumors of my small death have been greatly exaggerated.

But the pleasure was real.
The lie was ethical-
A half-truth, I was overcome with bliss but not quite reaching a precipice.
There was behavior worth reinforcing.
In particular, that thing you do with your tongue-

Do exactly that, but just-
Do it when I trust you.

Part One

Part Two

Eurydice and I have learned to understand each other. I appreciate the ability an orchid has to communicate: its roots bare to the world. Heart on her sleeve, it seems.

She takes after me.

Spoiled as ever. Her blooms continue to dry out, but her stem is green. She gets a steam bath in front of the humidifier whenever she loses her perk, and she responds quickly.

After too much googling, I learned less about orchids and far more about orchid people. Orchid gardeners are second only to mommy-bloggers when it comes to anxiety and judging. They are one step above vinyl record collectors when it comes to snobbery. But, after some waffling back and forth on the best watering methods, I have indeed fallen for the ice trick, and Eurydice seems to love it. It’s counterintuitive, but it seems to be working. It’s a technique which requires restraint, and patience. Eurydice and I are both learning patience.

I had to attend to a funeral this week, a former coworker’s suicide. In lieu of flowers donations were made to the local animal shelter. The only flowers were rose petals, we each tossed a handful of them into her open grave, over her urn, white and glittering. They buried her ashes by a young tree, which will be there for at least 400 years. Tree number 9. The deceased was 31. I am 32. Sometimes, when you cannot stop crying, it helps to focus on something else: numbers, letters, the names on the gravestones. A phalaenopsis orchid has a blooming cycle 2-3 months long, and many people throw them away after that. But they can live 10-15 years with proper care. Some have lived to be over 100 years old..

I watered Eurydice when I got home, with ice. I reminded her that she needs to live.

So do you, she said.

How dare you be such an amazing kisser.

How dare you make me think I‘ve met my match.

Again,

How dare you give me something to love.

You forgot what I’m capable of.

I’ll treat this little minx the way I should myself.

Give her the world, and anything else.

5-diamond, 5-star.

I blocked you, call it self-care.

I’m unfed, but I’m caffeinated.
Plied with rice milk and coffee.
You’re anxious, over-educated,
And unbearably pretty.

Scenes from a sunlit bachelor pad:
A corner bed-frame, comic books
Dry soap, a broken shower head,
Scraggy towels, a single hook.

You’re as broken as the rest,
But you get away with it.
I’ll leave in a minute, gorgeous,
Let me look at you for a bit.

Regale me with tales of your crises,
Lay all your despair on me.
Just, sit here a while. Let’s see
If you convince me to stay.

“It is a nice jacket, very cool, Sandra Dee.”

“Yeah, I’ve got chills, they’re multiplying. I kept it on while I was waiting for you, just to show it off. It has so many pockets, I don’t even need a purse! It makes me feel mad with power- not to be weighed down by a bag. I realized on Saturday: this is why society won’t give women pockets- it makes it harder for us to run.”

“Yeah, I’m cold, wouldn’t it be nice if only I had my blue Cardigan…but someone stole it.”

“I’m not giving it back. It’s mine now. Well, it’s still yours, but I’m keeping it, permanently. I told you, I get it in the divorce.”

“Fine. Well, where did we get it? I will have to buy another one.”

“I think C&A? Not sure. I am sort of accumulating a collection of men’s sweaters at this point.”

“Oh…?”

“Well, not quite, it’s just two at the moment, but it was three for while. I mean, I was good, I gave one of them back. The other guy hasn’t realized I still have his cashmere sweater. I forgot a belt at the nice one’s place, not sure what that means.”

“So, it’s, like, your thing.”

“Yeah, it’s like a tax, or whatever. The VAT. Not that anyone is paying for the arrangement, but, like, I guess that’s the catch…you come into my apartment, you must sacrifice an article of cashmere to me.”

“Seems fair.”

“Yeah it’s a trade off- you don’t have to hold me, but you need to keep me warm.”

I walked myself home from the date, alone.

Past the silhouettes of a couple breaking up
beneath the metal staircase at the construction site.
Backlit by the street-lamps on the square,
Snippets of her exasperation reverberating against the steel. 
Cold air and echoes of argument. 

I’ve done the whole flustered-but-adoring-academic routine before.
Perfected the art.
I could write a thesis on it.

I’m not interested in kissing a smoker.
I’m am somewhat interested in kissing you.
You seem awfully charming after a few cocktails,
And so on. 

And ho! Barkeep!
A salve, good sir, for the anxious polyglot!
Shaking like an over-caffeinated leaflet.

…

Today Academia informed me that someone in Rome cited me, or cited someone by my name.
My long Italian name which I am, it turns out, mispronouncing. Sure, I could be reasonable and assume it’s just a shared name. But it’s not so unreasonable that at last, one if the many PhD candidates I have nursed through their dissertations, went ahead and gave me some credit where it’s due.

Sunday, 12:59 p.m.

I think I can see it, the end.
There exists an illusion we face towards the exit, wherein the tunnel seems longer for a moment,
Stretching out towards the light.
Where we can slow down, hold our breath, and decide.

I say this every Sunday. The I’m done mantra.
But, it’s usually a ritual reserved for the evening, and it’s barely the afternoon.
My patience is creeping in, cutting off your time.

…

Monday, 6:13 a.m.

You make me pray for awful things, for the will to stop loving.
I won’t let you sap all compassion from me.

What a lazy and romantic poisoning.
You’re a grumpy patch of weeds.

“Have a nice week. Have a nice life, I guess. Be good.”

I will, respectively,
Do precisely that,
Do my absolute best,
And do no such thing.

God, I must be so convenient for you.

I want to be careful.
No,- I want to be adored.
I am absolutely incapable of being careful, and relentlessly capable of care.

You son of a bitch, you brought me a flower.
Not flowers.
Not some thing I can appreciate and let shrivel up by Wednesday
Like ten bucks of affection gone dry.

No, you,
You fucking asshole
Brought me a beautiful thing which I will surely destroy.

I was raised by a borderline wood nymph, and yet
Inherited nothing close to a green thumb,
I am reckless with plants
I am preposterously incapable.

Give me a man at his lowest depths and lord
Can I resurrect him with my tongue alone.

But give me a plant and watch it be
Smothered, drowned by my keen attention.

I am nothing if not
an affectionate thunderstorm.

And God, this poor blossom,
This orchid, doomed,
I’ve named her Eurydice.
For I, as Orpheus, shall do my best to keep her from death.

I do nothing but kill things.

God save her from me.

My friend warned me that she will shed her petals in the coming weeks
As the city turns cold and retreats.

Well, I will say, “here is Eurydice, my stick who imagines she is a flower.”

My friend warns me, further,
that the stem will also die,
but there will be leaves, and promises
A hefty requirement of patience
A relentless necessity of due diligence.

Eurydice, soon stumped and longing for sun
Perched at a north-facing window
On the corner of my dining room table
Dormant.
Indirectly sunlit.
Gorgeous,
Not dead yet.

Some thing I must nurse back in to existence,
A thing I must watch die
And sleep
And be reborn
And not once acknowledge as an analogy for anything in my life.

Play this while reading

Last week at a swing dance event, I cuddled the wall and chatted up N., the DJ.

“This song is about where I am from.”

“Massachusetts? Really”

“Yeah, the Boston area.”

“Oh wow, now I will think of you every time I play it.”

“I should be so lucky, to be occupying your thoughts.”

My shoulders smell like your sweat.

I should soap up,

Should wash you out.

I’m sacred enough

I’m decently dirty.

Latex and lubricant scented everything,

All my corners, how you’ve kissed them clean.

What a thing to bend to,

Each joint angled toward a lustful embrace with your mouth.

I don’t even know you,

And you know so little of the world or the ways of women,

Yet.

Yet, you.

Skilled, some natural talent,

Gorgeous and you don’t know it yet.

“This is like a second g-spot for you, your lower back”

(I showed you how to hold me like he does. You learned well.)

You lift me into your arms,

Precisely, like some tiny, precious thing.

Press me me against the wall, a flower betwixt pages in a bible.

My moans escape into the courtyard and echo throughout the evening,

My everything captive to you for so long as you please.

So tall.

I could have used you,

Back when I had to hang the curtains.

I could use you.

So tell,

Tell me,

Should I keep you?

…

“Wow”

“What?”

“Beautiful. You. You’re beautiful.”

It would seem that I’m an insatiable minx,
Suggestively bruised,
“Did I give you that scratch?”

Just a bit of sweat
Between acquaintances. A bit
of latex, and
little left
to the imagination
I’m having a delightful time,
Save for the occasional sore throat.

Though, perhaps I should practice
more subtlety,
Lest my reputation precede me.
She makes a grand entrance,
a cacophony.
Rumor has it,
The girl goes down easy.

I’ve nothing to apologize for,
He tells me I’m a good girl,
Tells me he wants more.

Well, everyone that was telling me to move on has to eat their words, because I bent myself backwards to do it.

I am going to hate myself when I wake up, so I am avoiding going to sleep. Avoiding the inevitable.

He didn’t ask for much in way of approval. The blissful ignorance of a handsome and preposterously well-endowed man, to ask nothing and try everything.

NO. (Don’t put your hand on my throat. )

At least he listened to that.

I proved…something? What a mediocre victory.

I am going to go shower forever.

I spent some time last night chatting with a smoker. They aren’t rare here, or disregarded. Despite the protected status of the nicotine-smitten citizens of the city, things have changed. Indeed, even Vienna, time capsule that it is, has modernized slightly since I moved here, and I no longer must suffer through the winter with my coat reeking of stale tobacco if I dare set foot in a bar for even a flutter of a moment.

The issue was, she was smoking the cigarettes I used to smoke. She had quite a few of of them, but kept insisting that each new cigarette was her second. There were 3 or 4 “second” cigarettes. It was entertaining, she’s a funny girl, and she looks cute when she smokes. That was the lethal thing back then, being told I looked good when I smoked.

And the whole time I was watching her look cute and forlorn through a cloud, my mouth was watering.

I cannot start smoking again. Absolutely not.

And yet today, I am reading, and still thinking about it. About how nice it would be to stop thinking about everything that plagues me and pick up a cigarette. To watch the smoke curl about the corners of the page like a cat in need of a cuddle. Wouldn’t it be romantic to have something else to occupy my mind than all this knowledge, and nonsense, and (god forbid) all these fucking emotions.

I’m asthmatic. We’re in the midst of a lung disease epidemic. I am far too logical for this.

But, wouldn’t one more bad habit solve everything?

If I am going to pick up smoking I will have to give up starting sentences with capital-A “and”. And I would rather die.

“I see that, too. Everyone here is broken. All these women I meet and they want love but they just can’t. You just look at them and you see, they can’t. I don’t know what it is about this city, if we all come here because we’re broken, or if the city makes us that way.”

“I always say, ‘Vienna is a city built on Roman ruins and heartbreak.”

But, I want to stay. At least for a little while.

I’m going to set roots, and grow like a weed from the cement.

I’m here to officially revoke my membership to the Broken Hearts Society.

Give me the form to fill out, the hotline to call. Go ahead, charge me an extortionate cancellation fee.

I’m ready.

“So you like your men like you like your furniture: Scandinavian.”

Making new friends and swimming in new waters. Getting my feet wet and talking too loud for my own good, perhaps. It’s nice to not be the most-American American girl in the room. I’ve been in Europe for six years and I still feel like Minnie Mouse, but I’ve grown to accept it.

Someone told me that when he is with me he “feel[s] like less of a stranger here.” So, maybe I am doing something right. Or maybe I am just making him feel normal by comparison. Who knows.

Hey gorgeous,

It’s late to be texting you, but

I was wondering if you

wanted to

Help me

forget about him.

I’m supposed to go away with you tomorrow.
I was supposed to be done with you, well before yesterday.
All I do when I’m with you is orgasm relentlessly and ask myself,
“What am I doing?”
“What am I fucking doing?!”

You make me feel worthless.
You make me feel so good.

You trace your thumbs along my bones,
You draw me so precisely.
Let me bask in the illusion of being known.
You don’t want to get to know me, really.

I just want to dislike you enough to remind myself not to want you.

I’m just here for the ride out of town.
I’m just here to get you out of my system.
I’m just here for the starlight.

I’m just here for a few more weeks,
Might as well enjoy it.

…

And were we to take an inventory of the friendship,
What would we find?

A few dozen skipped rocks.
A generous handful of sunsets.
Hotel receipts.
Gasoline.
A reckless dearth of caffeine.
Some spilled ink.
A couple wishes each, made during the meteor shower (What did you wish for?).
Enough peach pits for a cyanide poisoning.
A multitude of small deaths, some of them faked.
And perhaps, and most importantly,
Two people who are slightly happier than they were a few weeks ago.

The spoils of war whatever-the-fuck-this-is.

I feel comfortable with you.
Cozy, numb.
An affection relatively devoid of emotion, and certified gluten-free.  
You taught me to love dirt again. To get my hands filthy.
It’s under my fingernails, you’re under my skin.

I should learn to garden,
to cultivate something I can actually grow
and have a say in.
Something to nourish my body beyond pleasure.
I could grow herbs.
Vegetables.
Roses.

Who am I kidding, I can’t grow roses.
I can’t keep a cactus alive.

Perhaps, this week, I will buy myself some flowers.

That’s a start.

I meant to love you until one of us was dust for scattering. And then some.

I’d have adored you when you were just a pile of your own cinder, a plastic box of your ruined bones.

Instead, we disintegrated. We burnt up and escaped out the chimney with the breeze.

What a fleeting thing forever turned out to be.

You make me feel beautiful. Not just beautiful, gorgeous.

You make me feel gorgeous.

I’m not exactly great at taking it slow. I’ve been known to be impatient, My imagination is overactive. My hands are fidgety, and your skin is awfully soft. But, I will make an exception.

You are, or so it may seem, exceptional.

And what a thing it is, to not only be a thing worth wanting,

But to be a woman worth loving.

My phone is haunted by ghosts.

I should fucking block you

But I won’t.

Last night I didn’t dream of you, but I was thinking of you in the dream. Talking about you, trying to call you but the phone wouldn’t ring. Telling mutual acquaintances a bit of everything, all the falling apart and the pain.

And wouldn’t it be easy, wouldn’t it be convenient, if we could just retreat to a cave and grumble about the world. And love nothing but each other.

And perhaps my opinion on the matter will evolve. It’s a cliché ripe for disproving.

But, for now, it feels terrifyingly certain, that there is nothing I will ever love, the way I loved you.

I was up one stair,
the height difference compensated for
I figured I might as well,
kiss you and all.

Let’s get out of here.
If you take me home I’ll go down on you.
Nice try, and not the first time
a guy has used that line on me.

Maybe I give off a certain energy,
Maybe you all think I taste sweet?
I’m awfully vanilla, but
l hope it’s crafted with the expertise
only a pastry chef could manage.

You’re bringing back memories of Brooklyn,
and the bar hounds I used to know.
7 years away, I’m out of practice.
Same lines, different accent.
Dogs, all of you, really.
Puppies, lately.
Here boy, come play.

You can walk me home
but you can’t come in.

You can show me the sunset
and bring me a box of chocolates.

We can sit by the water
while you drink gin & tonic.

You’re allowed a certain amount of me,
the pleasure of my company.
A handful of skin, or two.
But, I’m not here to heal you,
not your manic pixie dream girl.
I have my own story.
I’ve been known to kiss and tell.

Polite kisses, not enough

to smudge my lipstick.

A younger man with thin lips

and a leather jacket.

“Are you cold? You can have it. “

There’s enough romance

in the city center at night,

That it even gets under the

skin of a guy who grew up here.

There’s enough moonlight to go around.

Enough street lamps to lean under.

“Are you a boy, or are you a man?”

“I’m not sure, what’s the difference?”

“Well, what do you value?”

“Absolute honesty, even when it hurts.”

“Well, I can’t tell you the precise difference. But one is that a man has an answer to that question.”

“Can I sit closer to you?”

And in the morning he calls me,

Texts me.

What a thing it is,

To be a thing that is wanted.

I was meant to be on a first date, with the doctor. Cancelled at the last minute, rescheduled for tomorrow. I wish I could say I care, but I don’t.

So, I am at home, all done up and with nothing to do. A storm arrived at 6 p.m. on the dot, banging the doors and windows shut.

And maybe, just maybe, I have grown accustomed to spending thunderstorms with you.

And maybe, just maybe, absolutely maybe, I prefer to.

Send me pictures while you are away.

Of all this nature you long to return to. Of the things that make you miss the city.
Show me the dirt you grew from,
your well-trod paths,
the back alleys frequented in your youth.
Your most familiar patch of sunlight.

I’d venture to guess that you have your
initials carved into a tree somewhere.

You said your favorite color is green,
show me the precise shade you were imagining. 

I went looking for a muse in a crinkle-eyed architect with affection for hard white lines and poured cement. I stumbled across a red haired charmer studying data security who says she “mostly dates men”. I fell back into the safety of my husband who doesn’t live here anymore. At some point, I have to stop calling him that, husband.

I spent the afternoon on the eve of turning 32 playing poker with 5 people who didn’t remember the rules, betting with blueberries.
I learned to skip stones today. I swam in the river.
I ate a cherry so ripe it bled down my palm while I moaned at its sweetness.
I had a day of blissful, childlike joy.

I did not get sunburned.

The crinkled hazel eyes looked at me and said,

“I have a problem with the color red”

“I can’t look at it anymore after so long staring at screens. For example, that car, if the sun were hitting it I couldn’t even look at it.“

And what am I if not the woman in the red dress?

Evidently, I am an acquired taste.

When I awake on my birthday my husband won’t be there, but he’ll visit for breakfast and some performative cooking. Some obligatory romance. 

I‘ll be sad tomorrow, feeling stupid about the things I said.

I feel foolish already, and full of regret, and uncomfortable with silence. And somewhat ashamed of my bright colors.

 But I did not get sunburned today.

And perhaps it would have been better to have ended the night early. But I am glad I got answers. These days, my heart’s dalliances are more and more fleeting. They just don’t make them like they used to, and so on. 

I love rainy days, I do. I prefer thunderstorms. Actually, I love thunderstorms and I am neutral about plain old rain- it depends on the temperature. It depends on the company, the evening, the street cleaning and the neon reflecting and the particular awning one takes shelter under. The I’m just here for a burger and to dry off, but thanks for the drink. The cash pocketed for a third of a cab ride from 60^th to Brooklyn, laughing all the way.

And to think what he would think of any of the men, of all these men. And me. And to think what he would think of me.

And the roof tiles opposite my quarantine chamber are slick with rain for once, the rusted green metal drain tapping about and I am pretending to read. I am pretending to be doing something worthwhile. I am actively avoiding you. I’ve been thinking about what I want, and it isn’t to hurt you. That would have been simple, nothing about this is simple. I still.

The prompt was about Lemons?

I want you to know that I killed the spider
who has been living by the elevator window for months now,
coming and going
in her orange-and-black and
increasingly terrifying fashion

far too close to the mailbox.

At least, I think that I killed her.

I came at her with the edge of a cardboard box
and she dropped
to the cobblestones.
At least, that is what I hope.

Perhaps, she ran up my sleeve
and she is in my hair now,
waiting.
Perhaps, her thousand servants are now congregating
for the sole purpose of plotting my demise.
They are laying out maps and dealing with issues of nepotism
and who is really the first born son of a thousand and so on.
I can only hope their diplomatic issues hold them at bay for some time.

I have no idea what she has been sustaining herself on
for all these months,
since August,
through Christmas,
and deep into winter.
Whatever it is,
it was likely rather meaty
given her voluptuous frame.

She’s a behemoth, truly.

She is most definitely crawling into the apartment,
and into the bed.
But before she inevitably kills me,

I just want you to know-
that I did this courageous thing for you.

I’m not going anywhere soon. But I took a bunch of tests which said I might, maybe, possibly, be going somewhere soon before long. So, If I’ve gone off anywhere, well not “anywhere” but into that particular-ineffable-where, I want you to know:

I went there listening to Satchmo’s  La Vie en Rose and Gene Wilder singing Pure Imagination. And at some point I was dancing, and I was thinking of you-each of you. And there are different yous in this letter, but you will know yours when you see it.

I thought about the nieces and nephews official and unofficial and the box of shiny-sparkly things I own. And each of you are getting something from that box, that you can someday give to someone you love. Because I love you so much I cannot imagine you could be capable of anything less than such pure love.

And, anyways, worst case I went out eating chocolate and peanut butter and horribly-HORRIBLY- attempting to sing songs from Gene Kelly musicals. And I never learned to dance well, but I sort-of-kind-of tried. And if I am gone my knees will be the happiest of all, they worked the hardest. They deserved the chance to relax at least.

And I don’t think I will see my mother yet, I think I may have a few more runs around reincarnation before I find her, but I expect to see a few dead poets and dead movie stars. And maybe one of them will teach me how to dance at last. And T.S. Eliot was probably really disappointing to meet, but I can get coffee with my grandfather and Salinger and talk about how much of a phony he was. 

And I am thinking about you all and hoping you are dumping the trash boyfriends or girlfriends who were weighing you down. Or abandoning the dating rules and telling the person you were trying to play hard-to-get with that you love them. Because they probably love you too, and if they don’t, please refer to the first sentence in this paragraph.

You should go back to school and get out of this shitty career. I’ll help you make that happen. 

And I hope you all get off twitter and TikTok for a bit. For a long bit. 

And you- many of you- take your medicine especially when your friends and family beg you to. And stop taking it when they beg you to stop. 

And I wish for you to figure out your faith-yours, not your parents. I spent this year attempting to figure out my god-shit and I didn’t find god but I found some good people, and that is just about as close as I think anyone can get. And I never learned how to shut up,  but I started learning how to try. Which is, well, it’s nothing really but them again so am I maybe? Or so I will be maybe? But it is good to shut up sometimes.  

Speaking of god, my god- lighten up. You’re all perfect mothers. Get off the internet, you’re fantastic. Really- and I had the best mom in the world and she was really crap at it sometimes. 

And uh, you-you. You know exactly who I mean, or you will when you read this: Go buy yourself the puppy. Even if it isn’t a shelter puppy because, you know, your allergies. And finish the writing. And see the aforementioned note on Twitter. And remember to eat breakfast, and let yourself enjoy it with whole milk. And find someone who likes music,  and also still wants to share risotto. It might be the puppy, who knows? 

-A

I attempted to write 30 poems in 30 days during April this year, with mild success, and too much honesty to share it all here. But here are some unedited moments that were tolerable to share, though not good. Point is, I did my homework.

1. (In)Complete guide to decorating a Wedding cake

Last night my German teacher said that I had a profession which did not require thinking, but that my husband did. Well, at least that is what I think he said. He doesn’t speak a word of English.

Lead Singer:
“This song is about heroine.”
Audience member:
“A song about herring?”

It is acceptable to be the lone dancing girl in the room,
but only if your arms never reach above the level of your eyes.

Today was my first Dutch lesson. Kevin and I recently moved to Eindhoven for his work, and after leaving my job in Amsterdam I am finally taking the time to learn some of the language before I apply for work.

In class today, there was some discussion of the accent in this part of the Netherlands, Eindhoven and North Brabant.

(Note: North Brabant is an odd name because there is no South Brabant in the Netherlands, and the province of North Brabant is located in the South-East part of the country. What happened to South Brabant? What secret is being covered up?)

Anyways, the accent. As I have gathered(likely incorrectly) the accent here is a bit softer, specifically in reference to the throaty “G” sounds (pronounced huh, but like you have a chest cold) and when it comes to the letter “r.” According to my teacher, the people around here use a much softer, breathy, almost non-existent “r” whereas people in the Hague used a harder “r.” Also according to my teacher, the people in the North think people from Brabant sound, well, less intelligent.

(Note: North of the country, not to be confused with North Brabant which is in the South.)

Supposedly, people here in the South think that those crazy Hague dwellers sound haughty and self-important. Pronouncing their Rs. Pfft. So snobby.

Thus, my interpretation of this lesson is:
Eindhoven has the Boston accent of the Netherlands.

Let me just start by saying last night I witnessed a domestic dispute so violent that the sound of, something, banging against the walls of the house next door woke me up at 2 a.m.

No, let me just start by saying that I also witnessed the police act in a way I can only call a hate crime against a trans woman who was trying to help.

No, let me just start by saying that the sex workers of this city are our community watch, they have more presence on this street than the police which are 45 seconds away. They are the heroes of the story.

No, let me start with the terrifying image of the open door of our neighbor’s house, the walls of the hallway covered in blood.

We live on a mostly quiet street in Amsterdam, between a bike rental store on the right and a building on the left that is so comically leaning its bricks wave up and down in a dramatic zig-zag. People often stop to take photos of the neighbor’s cat perched in the window of the very wobbly building. In the wobbly house house live and man and a woman, an Italian woman with long black hair who wears thick buddy holly glasses. She’s tall and thin and strikingly beautiful in a way that always makes me jealous. She lives with a man who we found out last night was her boyfriend.

To the right of our house, two doors down, we have a few red windows that sex workers rent. Sometimes the windows have blue lights, which advertise that the woman inside in also trans. I am on friendly waving terms with many of the women. We don’t live in the red light district, so the women who work these windows are different. Some have beautiful, what I like to consider “real” bodies, by which I mean soft, wrinkled, lumpy, lived in bodies. I like them. For example, one, named Marina, is a regular during the weekdays. Kevin and I think she is a mother working during school hours.
The other week while walking home Kevin noted,
“Oh, Marina moved windows”
“She cut her hair, too. I like it. Maybe I should write a sign to tell her.” I said. I never bothered to.

This isn’t a story about Marina. I just wanted to put something nice in here.

Last night at about 2a.m. I woke up to the sound of banging on our walls from the apartment to the left, the wobbly house, and what I imagined to be kids shouting. Then it began to sound like women shouting. I got up and went to the window when it was clear it was a woman shouting. Outside there was one of the trans sex workers standing on the street, looking into the open door of the wobbly house, shouting and dialing on her phone. In the middle of the winter, she was standing outside in fishnets and underwear, without her shoes on. I heard the Italian woman next door crying and yelling to call the police, shouting “My boyfriend is going crazy, he hit me he hit her he won’t stop. Call the police” Then she shouted her address.

I shouted to Kevin to call the police. He was already half up., and he grabbed his phone.

Then the Italian woman started screaming.
Not shouting, horror movie screaming.
Then bang.
Then screaming.

I started sobbing, thinking we were about to listen to a murder. While Kevin called the police, I saw the sex worker shout “Bastardo!” to the open door and then back away, scared.
I opened our front door and beckoned for her to come inside if she needed. She said no, she asked if we called the police and I said we had. She said she had called the police but they weren’t listening to her. This is the part of the story I am calling a hate crime. Because the scared cries of a sex worker aren’t worth the same speedy attention of a man calling.

When the police arrived they went inside, Kevin and I went outside to see what the banging was from. The front door of the wobbly house was open, the wall in the front hallway was covered in blood. Covered.

The sex worker told me that the woman had a head wound.
It looked like she had been pushing against the door, smearing her blood on the walls.
I asked the sex worker,
“The Italian woman? The skinny one with the long black hair?”
“Yeah, I mean I would say more dark brown but yes, her.”
“Is the boyfriend the man who lives here?”
“Yes, I see him walk by all the time, tonight, maybe 20 minutes ago, I saw him walk by drunk, he’s been drinking, he’s out of his head.”

Kevin and I stood by the window for a half hour, until the police escorted the Italian woman to a car, followed by her boyfriend to another police car.

Then we tried to go back to sleep.

So, let me just finish this by saying that all women are women and we look out for each other, that sometimes men only want to listen to other men. That the sex workers of this city are our community watch, they have more presence on this street than the police which are 45 seconds away. They are the heroes of the story.

My Poem “The Best Place Not To See Paris” was published as part of the HIV Here and Now project. Go Check it out:

Poem 149 ± October 31, 2015

Is it still- no,
Is that just rain still falling?
You know, dripping from the trees
still.

Yeah it is,
it’s just
what is left.

They look like they think
it’s spring. You know?
Like they are just blooming.
It’s pretty. The light really.
I mean. I hate to tell them.

God.
Is it fall already?

Not until September-
twenty first or twenty second?

They’re just setting their watch by it.