Poetry Corner Whenever I Feel Like It

Preservation

By Kathleen Flenniken

Bobo awaits my third grade class
at the forgotten end of the museum. I explain
when they finish beating their chests

that Bobo was a famous gorilla I saw at the zoo
when I was seven, that here he looks false
because he's stuffed and mounted upright, like a man.

We take in his flared nostrils and hair, the virility
of his chocolate-colored chest. Everyone, even Dylan,
falls silent for a moment, long enough to remember

you left me four weeks ago yesterday,
a rubber band snap to my inner cranium
for the thousandth time today.

Bess and Tran point to photos of Bobo as a baby,
dressed in a nightgown, being fed a bottle. Bobo "smiling"
at his birthday party. Happier days. I think irrelevantly

of the milk expiring in my refrigerator,
how attached I am to the date on the carton,
the day before the world went sour.

Even milk obscures the rites of decomposition,
the holy rites that Bobo was denied.
Is that so wrong? Roy Rogers

stuffed and mounted Trigger, his companion.
Wasn't that sweet testament, if sad and strange?
Bobo, do you understand the impulse?

I gaze into your fake glass eye but you decline
to answer. I'm talking to myself, your look implies.
We both stand awkwardly with nothing to say.

The kids are restless. They're talking about ice cream
and the bus outside. He was real, I remind them
but they're running up the hall.

The last time I saw him, he was alive.

You've Been a Big Help, Google Maps

I have plans today to meet someone in Monroe, which is only about 15 minutes away from my house but is a place I'm not very familiar with. I Googled directions to our rendezvous location and I would like everyone to observe the results I was given.

Start:
1. Turn right onto NE 195th St                                        0.4 miles
2. Turn left onto Woodinville-Snohomish Rd NE              0.5 miles
3. Take ramp left and follow signs for WA-522 East        3.4 miles
4. Turn left onto US-2 / Stevens Pass Hwy                     0.2 miles
5. Turn left onto N Kelsey St                                          0.1 miles
6. Turn left onto road                                                      0.0 miles
7. Turn left onto road                                                      0.0 miles
8. Turn left onto road                                                      0.0 miles
End: Arrive at road on the right                                       0.0 miles

I don't see how this could possibly go wrong.

Sounders Win Despite Best Efforts

Oz is a beast.

I'm going to confess something here, right now, because I need to get it out in the open, and what I need to confess is this: unless my team is destroying its opposition, I don't find watching soccer at all enjoyable. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's downright agonizing. Such was the Sounders game against the Colorado Rapids last night, when we scored in the second minute, conceded a goal two minutes later, scored again late in the second half, and then spent the last 20 minutes of the game running about like it was our first day on the job while the Rapids, as our former announcer would say, "loitered with intent" in the goal box, pummeling us with shots. I spent the entire second half digging my fingernails into my palms as if expecting to find treasure. My hands were shaking. My cheeks were burning. With five minutes left I looked over at my mom and she was leaning forward in her seat, her hands clasped in front of her in what resembled prayer. When the whistle blew I realized I'd been holding my breath for a truly impressive length of time. "What does it feel like to have a heart attack?" I asked my mom, releasing the tension in my fingers and sliding back onto my seat. "Put your hands up," she told me, "and breath."

See what I mean? Not enjoyable at all. Watching soccer is the most stressful way I could possibly spend a Saturday evening. So what did I do to relax? Made some quinoa salad and sat down to watch more soccer. You see, it's fine when I don't care who wins.

I Adore the Olympics

There are times in my life when I am stoic. There are times when I am entirely in control of my emotions. There are times when you couldn't pay me to cry.

And then there are the Olympics.

I have to say, I wasn't expecting much in the way of spectacle after the Beijing Games. I was like Wesley Snipes (not the Wesley Snipes) on 30 Rock when he was expressing concern to Liz Lemon about London as a host. "We're not prepared!" he exclaimed. "Did you see the Beijing Opening Ceremony? We don't have control of our people like that!" It's true--I don't think it's possible to create a more technically and visually precise production than the opening of the past Summer Games. But if Beijing was the tight, regimented production, London was the plucky little sibling with a whole lotta heart...and a really attractive accent.

I have been enchanted by the Olympics my entire life. When I was younger my mom would let me stay up late on school nights so I could watch my favorite Olympian of all time, American figure skater Michelle Kwan, compete in the long program. Backstage before my high school graduation, my friend Jessica and I attempted to hum "Pomp and Circumstance" but could remember only the Olympic theme song, to which we hummed our little hearts out.

To me, there are few displays of human accomplishment and camaraderie more breathtaking than Opening Ceremonies. Yes, they're so long that when they finally end it's practically time to extinguish the cauldron. Yes, they always have at least one excruciating moment whose corniness makes you want to slap your forehead in anguish. But when those countries start their march into the stadium there is nothing in the world that can touch them. It's a night of such profound national pride, such celebration of human potential and accomplishment, that you'd have to be made of stone to not be moved.

Kenneth Branagh for King of the Universe

If you were to chart my tearshed like rainfall it would be a more or less horizontal line except for five hours every two years that shot off the chart. That's the Opening Ceremony, and last night was no different. I can't stress to you enough how easily I can cry. I cry while listening to Disney songs. I cry if I'm trying to relocate a ladybug outside and accidentally injure it. Last week I cried during the Tour de France. It should come as no surprise, then, that I'm still dabbing my eyes after the deaf children sang and signed the British national anthem (after which I ran into the kitchen where my mom was watching it and, sniffing like a fool, declared "Damn those deaf kids!"). I cried when Kenneth Branagh recited a short soliloquy from The Tempest. (Kenneth Branagh is like chocolate syrup to me: everything is better with it.) I cried when the children's choir from Northern Ireland sang "Danny Boy," which was the song performed by members of my high school's faculty during the memorial service for my beloved English teacher Prudence Hockley. I cried when Saudi Arabia entered the stadium with its two female athletes, marking the first time in history that women have been allowed to compete for that nation. These are the first Games in which each of the 205 countries competing have sent women athletes and, for the U.S., the first time female competitors have outnumbered men.

Deaf children singing. I'm toast.

My mom and I also put on a stunning display during yesterday evening's ceremony, but ours was of global knowledge. Highlights included when I decided I wanted to learn all the countries and their capitals and then proceeded to draw a blank on every country beginning with an H. My mom and I then promptly forgot every nation starting with I except for Ionia which is, in fact, not a country. Who knew?

My dad, clearly exhausted, had wanted to stay up to hear Paul McCartney sing. He only went to bed when we reminded him that thanks to the time difference he could have YouTubed the performance five hours before. When my mom went to sleep she told me to tell her about anything exciting that happened. Considering it was halfway through the Parade of Nations, I asked what kind of excitement she was expecting. "Oh, I don't know," she answered. "When the U.S. shows up?"

The most moving moment of the night for me came, as it often does, with the lighting of the cauldron. As each nation made its entrance into the stadium it brought with it a metal petal which was then attached to one of over 200 pipes extending from the center of the arena. Seven of the petals were ignited by the torch bearers and within moments a chain reaction had lit a fire in each petal. Once they were all lit, they slowly rose up from the ground to form a single cauldron. Two hundred five nations becoming one in the spirit of the Summer Games. It was one of the most touching, beautiful moments I have ever witnessed. When my mom asked me this morning if I'd stayed up to watch the rest of the ceremony, I told her about the rising petals. "I cried so hard!" I said. Her response: "Of course you did."

Please, no one get married, die, or award me the Nobel Peace Prize in the next week or so. I need to replenish my tear supply.

So That Happened

I ripped a sheet out of my notepad today to scribble down a takeout order before I called it in. I just got home and noticed that along the top part of the page I had written the following quote, which I overheard somewhere: "I know what you mean about being obsessed with something. I was once obsessed with hemorrhagic fevers and witchcraft in Japan." I have no earthly idea where this could have come from, so if you are reading this and either said it or know who did, please let me know.

My mom was just going through the King County Voters' Pamphlet for the upcoming elections and she started laughing. "Oh Liv," she said, "you'll love this. This guy doesn't list his elected experience, doesn't list his other professional experience. He wrote that he 'had many animals and allot'--A-L-L-O-T--'of responsibility. And here he writes 'it's soul' with an apostrophe S. He has a business degree from the U-Dumb--I mean Dub!"

I cut up some avocado for my quesadilla tonight and decided after I bit into it that warm avocado tastes exactly like baked chicken. I find this repulsive.

I was checking the grocery list on the refrigerator before I headed to the store. Underneath "yogurt" my mother had added "dog biscuits." We don't have a dog.

Somehow, a while ago, my dad got placed on some expectant mother mailing list. He's received everything from flyers on parenting seminars to free samples of Enfamil baby formula. My favorite treasure came last week, addressed to one Robert Nargoshes:

 

My dad learning how he, too, can "bust through breastfeeding."

Checking out the BabyTalk centerfold.

 I love that these people don't think twice before mailing a magazine whose demographic is only (not even primarily) new mothers, to a 61-year-old man whose youngest child graduated from college two years ago. And who, it bears repeating, is a MAN.

I'm So Popular...with the Crazies

It seems I can't go anywhere these days without total strangers deciding that I look like I need a hug and should be engaged in conversation.

I met my most recent new "friend" at the Anacortes ferry terminal while sitting in the walk-on passenger waiting area. Her name was Liz. She was messily eating a muffin and kept dropping crumbs onto her white capris. "Oh, would you look at me!" she exclaimed. "Don't eat muffins with white pants! New rule!" She guffawed--really there is no other word for the sound her mouth produced--and the entire population of the sleepy waiting area turned to look at us. As you can probably imagine, based on how much I adore attention, I was mortified.

Other noteworthy Liz moments:

1. She told me I had a "youthful, energetic" face and guessed that I was 19. I should add that she'd already told me she used to teach at Western Washington University--meaning that she spent all  her days around people my age and still thought I looked like I'd just barely graduated from high school. I've decided that I'm going to keep track of how old people think I look. Maybe if I get enough guesses they'll average themselves out to at least 17.

2. After she conned her way into getting me to confess my plans for the future, she suggested that I make a storyboard to help me write. She also said that she won a trip to England once for writing a haiku that was "absolute dog shit."

3. She saw my guitar case leaning against the bench next to me and asked what I was playing. Gee, a piano.

4. She asked if I was going to adopt a nom de plume when I was published. Now, I may be wrong, but when you hear that someone wants to be a writer is the first question you generally ask whether or not they're satisfied with their name? Yeah, I'm taking a pen name. It's Nunya Damb Isnuss.

5. When I'm in public by myself, I'm terrified of looking like a fool in front of complete strangers I'll never see again. It's completely irrational but knowing that isn't going to assuage my fear. In these instances I tend to keep a low profile, sinking down behind my open book or standing in line quietly or finding the least disruptive way to do whatever the situation calls for. No such luck with Liz. She wanted to know, loudly, if I could recommend a good place to get dinner on the island. I had no choice but to answer, with the preface that "I am no local," which I hoped was enough of an excuse to explain to any islanders within earshot that I wasn't claiming an intimate knowledge of Eastound's culinary scene. I mumbled my way through a few restaurants while Liz unfolded her map and followed along as I gave her the street names (there are literally only two).

Stay tuned for more stories of how people take pity on me because I supposedly look like I have no friends.

Words to Come

I just got back from two days on Orcas with my mom, and while I'm far too lazy to regale you with stories of the crazy woman I met waiting at the ferry terminal or how I made an ass of myself in front of an Italian who didn't understand me, allow me to tantalize your eyebuds with a few snapshots that demonstrate exactly why this island is one of my favorite places on the planet.

Eastsound, the island's main town. Painfully adorable, right?

Even with lightning and the loudest thunder I've ever heard, there was a stunning sunset.

Part of my yurt and the view from it.

The road leading away from Orcas Island Pottery.

I may or may not be a bit obsessed with sunsets...

I rest my case.

And I rest it again.