Meet The Residents

It’s the small victories when you’re trying to make a teeny tiny living space work. This week, it was the plate rack.

The kitchen cabinets, they are small. I had been getting by on just stacking whatever the heck dishes I could in the one near the sink. This included dishes of the eat-now-at-home type and dishes of the store/take-food-to-work type. The problem being that often when I just wanted to plop down and eat a burrito or my normal nosh of Triscuits and sharp cheddar cheese, I had trouble locating a plate. Don’t even get me started on trying to find a clean glass.

So I ventured to Bed Bath and Whatevah yesterday and found a little rack that fits nicely in the corner of the cabinet. And, by executive fiat, I declared that the cabinet in question would only be for the eat-now-at-home type of dish.

I don’t know where the store/take-food-to-work type of dishes are going to go. They’ll just stay in that box for now.

Next, I found a dish cart, the kind restaurants use, that, with a little help from a friend, I’ll take delivery of Friday. This will solve another problem I’ve found with living in a tiny little space: Where do you put the dirty dishes?

They end up in the sink, on the stove, on the itty bitty counters, everywhere.

This makes actually washing them a bit of a challenge. Thus, the two professional-grade bus pans and the professional-grade dish cart. Hoping to install a molhagger dish drying rack on top of the cart just for added convenience. No more drying dishes over the bathtub!

It’s a glamorous life.

“The original pressing of the album sold poorly, reportedly selling only forty copies in its first year, with most being returned to the publisher unopened.”

That’s my kind of record.

Seriously. This is a friggin’ classic. Though it might cause seizures in some humans.

What If Gravity Changed?

I’ve taken on a Facedbook challenge from my friend Cara. It’s a poetry challenge. She posted a poem by Eloise Klein Healy. I liked her post and then Cara assigned me a poet to find one of his works and to post it.

She gave me Ross Gay, a raw poet who evokes subtle events from his experience and creates powerful events and feelings from that. I enjoyed reviewing some of his work and will perhaps add his books to my wish list.

I can’t help but think that the poem I selected, “Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew,” is about football.

Pittsburgh. November 28. 1985. Colts-Steelers. I figure as a Youngstown-born Phillie resident, maybe he’s torn about this rout he’s just heard of. Holy cow. Payton Manning just destroyed these poor fellas, he’s thinking. Then, his thoughts turn to bombs, his new family member and legacies.

Thanks, Cara. That was fun. Now, like this post so that I can assign you Wallace Stevens and be done with it.


Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew
by Ross Gay

Today, November 28th, 2005, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
I am staring at my hands in the common pose
of the hungry and penitent. I am studying again
the emptiness of my clasped hands, wherein I see
my sister-in-law days from birthing
the small thing which will erase,
in some sense, the mystery of my father’s departure;
their child will emerge with ten fingers,
and toes, howling, and his mother will hold
his gummy mouth to her breast and the stars
will hang above them and not one bomb
will be heard through that night. And my brother will stir,
waking with his wife the first few days, and he will run
his long fingers along the soft terrain of his child’s skull
and not once will he cover the child’s ears
or throw the two to the ground and cover them
from the blasts. And this child will gaze
into a night which is black and quiet.
She will pull herself up to her feet
standing like a buoy in wind-grooved waters,
falling, and rising again, never shaken
by an explosion. And her grandmother
will watch her stumble through a park or playground,
will watch her sail through the air on swings,
howling with joy, and never once
will she snatch her from the swing and run
for shelter because again, the bombs are falling.
The two will drink cocoa, the beautiful lines
in my mother’s face growing deeper as she smiles
at the beautiful boy flipping the pages of a book
with pictures of dinosaurs, and no bomb
will blast glass into this child’s face, leaving
the one eye useless. No bomb will loosen the roof,
crushing my mother while this child sees
plaster and wood and blood where once his Nana sat.
This child will not sit with his Nana, killed by a bomb,
for hours. I will never drive across two states
to help my brother bury my mother this way. To pray
and weep and beg this child to speak again.
She will go to school with other children,
and some of them will have more food than others,
and some will be the witnesses of great crimes,
and some will describe flavors with colors, and some
will have seizures, and some will read two grade
levels ahead, but none of them will tip their desks
and shield their faces, nor watch as their teacher
falls out of her shoes, clinging to the nearest child.
This child will bleed
and cry and curse his living parents
and slam doors and be hurt and hurt again. And she will feel
clover on her bare feet. Will swim in frigid waters.
Will climb trees and spy cardinal chicks blind
and peeping. And no bomb will kill this child’s parents.
No bomb will kill this child’s grandparents. No bomb
will kill this child’s uncles. And no bomb will kill
this child, who will raise to his mouth
some small morsel of food of which there is more
while bombs fall from the sky like dust
brushed from the hands of a stupid god and children
whose parents named them will become dust
and their parents will drape themselves in black
and dream of the tiny mouths which once reared
to suckle or gasp at some bird sailing by
and their tears will make a mud which will heal nothing,
and today I will speak no word
except the name of that child whose absence
makes the hands of her parents shiver. A name
which had a meaning.

As will yours.

—for Mikayla Grace