Yes, it's true, I'm working on a new children's book.  I was inspired by some fabulous kids while visiting another tutoring center this week.  It's about a bird raised by clowns.  Suddenly he finds out that his family makes people laugh for a living!  Crazy.

Here is an excerpt:

"It's time!" Gary thought.  "Soon there will be amazing explosions, or they'll be turning the car into a spaceship!"  Deloris opened the door of the tiny car and got in.  It was a tight squeeze, and Gary was kind of surprised she was able to fit.  Then Morris squished in beside her.  The the unthinkable!  Borris managed to push himself in between and on top of Morris and Deloris!  Gary had no idea they could bend like that.  Then Deloris started the engine and drove the car in a circle.  Boris has his leg sticking out of the car, and Morris was practically folded in half with his pants sticking out the window!  That was when the audience really started laughing.  The roar of giggles was deafening.  Gary was shocked.  "What are you laughing at?"  He asked aloud.  "What could possibly be so funny?  Do you know how difficult that is?"  The woman next to Gary was laughing too hard to answer.

Soon, there'll be more.


Stay tuned.

Though her doctor’s were adamant, about there being no connection whatsoever, when the pain started, Maggie knew she had better start praying. It was not long before Olivia, found her mother clutching her head, rocking back and forth slightly and praying forgiveness from St. Jude.  When Olivia was three, Maggie began repeating the names of important saints and figures. Made Olivia follow after her in the supermarket mumbling, “Mary, Mother of Jesus, St. Jude, the saint of Lost Causes.”
    Even at age three, Olivia knew she was asking for things unattainable.  She was aware, for example, that “Honey nut Cheerios”were an item one would buy were one not living a “life for the lord.”  “But the bee...”  She would moan as her mother dragged her down the aisle.  “A bee stings Olivia.  He stings.  This should be read as a warning.”

***

“You don’t want it to get too free jazz,” her uncle noted of Olivia dancing to his rehearsal music.  Se stopped, blushing.  She hadn’t realized her dancing was big enough for her uncle to notice.  “If you’re going to be here girl, don’t mark it, make it large!”  Her uncle and his pianist Frances were preparing his “Christmas with the Queens!” extravaganza.  His lover Pedro was on the floor attempting to make a tiara out of a wreath. “Baby, she’s twelve now.  Maybe she don’t want to be shaking that teeny booty all over the place.”  Olivia sheepishly looked behind her.  “Honey,” her uncle giggled, “You’re going to have to bend a lot further than that!”
“She’d better learn to bend,” Pedro mumbled, “if she’s going to take over the family business.”
“The family business?”  Olivia asked.  Her uncle laughed, “taking California by storm!”





(More to follow soon of course)

Meanwhile, I spent four hours on my grad school essay... and it is gone!  awesome.

Read this
           then this


and then this:
    Olivia’s uncle quoted Queen while he cooked stir fry.  One hand on the spatula in the wok, and one hand on his hip.  “The show must go on, The show must go on, Inside my heart is breaking, My make-up may be flaking, But my smile still stays on!”  Olivia giggled.  His make-up was not, in fact, flaking, but he did have a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, and Olivia was not entirely convinced that no ash dropped itself in the wok.  “If anything,” he said, “it adds flavor.”
    “Mama says people who smoke-” Her uncle cut her off.  “Did you know that your name was almost Gloria?  Named for the glory that is Jesus, girl!”  Her uncle turned and mouthed slowly, “JE-SUS.”  He turned off the stove and fished vegetables out of the oil.  A bit quieter and to himself he muttered, “It’s no wonder the girl turned to drugs.”
    When her mother told her they were visiting her uncle, Olivia knew that part of her had given up.  The third day her mother didn’t sleep, she told Olivia to pack her things, “Come on,”  She picked up Olivia’s dolls and shoved them in a duffel bag, “There’s no time for folding!”  Six year old Olivia had never heard her mother skip a step like this.





Goodnight nerds.

A bit more of the story for y'all...


(see this post  for the first part)


    Olivia liked to give her dolls a hair cut while her uncle was shaving. She usually wrapped the plastic yellow strands in a rubberband. Lay on her belly parting their hair watching her uncle rub cream on his cheeks, and chest. Thicker rubber bands were more difficult for her fingers but more effective. Olivia waited until her uncle washed the broccoli each week and stole the thick blue bands surrounding the bunches. While she created pony tails, her uncle turned, "Babe, the thing about California is that your dolls no longer need those long wool socks!" He ran his index finger from the doll's squished foot to her knees and rubbed the paint off on the blue bath towel.

    Olivia crinkled her nose and silently vowed to repaint.  When her uncle finished shaving, he rewrapped the towel around his head.  "Babe, it's important that each woman have a beauty routine.  How old are you now a hundred and four?"  Olivia couldn't help but giggle.  "Seven."  Olivia's uncle sat her down on a stoll in front of his mirror.  He pulled a jar of face cream across the counter.  He dipped three fingers into the cream and covered his face.  He used his index fingers to rub the cream into the spots where he would later paint his eyebrows.   Olivia raised her own eyebrow and smiled.  "Seven is just right girlie!"  Her uncle palmed her chin, and carefully dotted her nose with cream.  Later, while her uncle dressed, Olivia dipped her dolls in face cream.

(More soon, promise)



Otherwise, life is good.  I just bought tickets to pittsburgh, so anyone there can see me Dec 18th-22nd!

    Olivia knew her dolls weren't safe.  She had expressly asked for "better than an old hat box."  When her uncle chuckled, it was exactly like saying, "Your dolls simply aren't worth it."  But of course, Olivia knew that they were.  They simply were.  She had tried several containers in the past.  Tupperware, old mayonaise jars.  But ever since her 7th birthday, when her uncle had used a phillips head to put together her new bike, she had her eye on her uncle's toolbox, a red and yellow armored box.  A box with a lock.  Olivia loved tools.  She loved to wrap both hands around a hammer (her hands were still quite small), swing it above her head and smash her dolls.
 
   See the thing was, it was not that she wished to keep the dolls safe, exactly.  It was that, when it was time for a doll to end,  she knew it was her job to make it right, make it exact.  She liked to start at the feet. Flattening each foot with a wrench until the dolls could stand again without heels.   Then she worked on the calves, covering each with a layer of paint, creating socks.  When she worked with paint, Olivia was careful to push her curls behind her ears for it had taken weeks to pick all the bits of paint out when she'd first begun.  Often she chose two different colors for each, so that each foot could "assert his individuality."
   
    This is what Olivia heard her mother say about her uncle when she dropped Olivia off for the last time.  It was a while before Olivia learned that her uncle preferred to live in housedresses and church hats.  When he finally figured her mother wasn't coming back, he knew it was allright to be himself.  This is when Olivia learned she could cut her hair short if she wanted to.  She didn't.  Her uncle just liked to tell her often that she could...

To be continued...




(Afraid that is all I can write for now without falling asleep on the keyboard.)

Night nerds.

Most parents banned chemicals, preferred to disregard childhood experimentation. Charlie’s father left notes.
Please don’t smoke weed in the kitchen.
Don’t do shady shit on the fire escape.
Charlie knew, if properly provoked, her father would write everything on Post-Its
I love you.
I know you date girls.
Please learn to sing, at least.
Charlie once touched the Fender Stratocaster because it was in front of the bookcase. She wanted to grab the encyclopedia to look up the Ming dynasty for a poem she was writing. Her father kept the guitar on a stand right in front of the shelves. Charlie cautiously grasped the neck and tugged it out of the metal prongs. Held it like a baby. Held it like a first edition. Deciding which volume of the encyclopedia she required, she paused for a moment with the guitar in her arms. When her father walked in the room, he sparkled.
Experimenting with the old Strat huh?
Charlie was too uncomfortable to deny it.
Her father told her, Don’t worry, practice can make up for small fingers. We can start with how to hold it today and then I bet by the end of the week, you will be working on bar chords.
Charlie cleared her throat.
Don’t be surprised when you get your first blisters. It will pass, and then you will have fingers tough as nails. Won’t feel a thing.
Her father gave her a lesson for an hour. When he saw her sheepishly grab the encyclopedia afterwards, his orange moustache dropped. Tightening his ponytail, he clicked his tongue against his teeth, played bar chords for the rest of the day.
Sitting close on the linoleum floor of the living room/kitchen, Charlie allowed her father’s compositions to wrap warm notes around her. Each night she fell asleep in the constructed cradle of 12 blue bars.

mikal loves colors

mikal grew up on roller skates. she spends days at the arcade using the metal hand to grasp at vampire teeth and plastic cell phones. on the off chance she wins something stuffed, it belongs immediately to the closest four year old nappy headed boy whose older brother will tell him it is for pussies.

this is when mikal leaves each day, smokes her way to thompson square, smokes her way to the center of the benches where she watches. this is where the woman plays violin as a fiddle. this is where the old man brings his burrito to stuff his cheeks while the squirrels beg. this is where spikes on top of the guitarist's head make mikal nervous as she pictures him emptying the object from the tremendous case strapped on his back. this is where she sees the belt straps and false teeth. this is where watching springs.

mikal loves alf. remembers the snorks. the fraggles, the doozers. mikal is familiar with slap bracelets and pop rocks. she knows where fiefal goes. when mikal sees brittany, she remembers tiffany. she drank juice boxes with slimer on the front. she remembers when relatives could walk you to your gate. when you could wait for your flight while watching lovers cry/kiss/pretend.

today is king's birthday. there are more children hanging from the slide. there are more nannies exchanging. when mikal squats and pulls out her chalk, there are more people to watch. she starts with a stroke of yellow. curves and creates a kiss of blue. this is when the first one comes. she holds cotton candy like an umbrella. a stop watch around her neck. she steers a bike with one hand. she is eight.

"ima hafta get myself some a dose crayons." she chews a chunk of pink. "dat orange parts like a punkin. we don't celebrate halloween. i'm jewish." mikal surveys. the girl is covered in tight braids. is dark as toast. mikal pictures the men on the street covered in felt stars of david.

"how old are you?" thiry five? thirty six?" mikal does not stop to look up from her colors. just asks.

"no! eight!"

"thirty eight?" mikal shrugs, "no way you're thirty eight!"

she giggles.

"no, jus eight!"

"you don't know how to drive? you mean you're not going to drive me home? i don't even see your car! how are we both going to fit on that?" mikal shrugs towards the bike.

she giggles. she giggles. she giggles and coughs a bit on the pink.

this is when her nanny arrives. she is purple and plump. she has been running. she mutters. "chica loca, why don't she slow down? who you watchin? leave her alone. she works."

the bike is mounted, pulls away. mikal ads pink to her colors.

not long before the second, and he comes with the skyline, silver across his chest. mikal does not have to see his eyes to know he is new. his phone is shiny, his messenger bag is open. “dude. i’m like actually in the park. i swear to g-d on law and order last night they were in this exact spot.” his voice lowers. “except now there’s this girl. kind of punky. and she’s like drawing on the sidewalk.” pause. “fuck no!” he glances. “oh. it’s like a tree or something.” he looks up. “no, or like the ocean. dude, i haven’t been on a board in like a month. yeah. yeah.” pause. “no. not yet” he starts to wander. mikal finds grey and pictures shine.

soon there are three and four and ten. soon mikal loses count and finds it hard to listen to them all. she tries. it is not the first time that she has felt them swirl inside her head. it is not the first time she has listened. each time she finds they create her vision. they vision her creating.

mikal loves hair the color of cranberries. mikal loves pigeons and pugs and finger-paints. she loves the arc of an eyebrow, the hum of alone. mikal loves the bounce of the train, the light of a blank sky. mikal loves new and found and lost. mikal loves jump and fight and smooth. mikal loves the family that can only come out of strangers who expect nothing and everything. mikal loves colors.