I like lists. So a list of things that have been rolling around in my head of

Things I am Thinking About

1. Buying a hedgehog for a pet

2. New fish in the meantime

3. See the summer solstice from a mountaintop in Alaska

4. Just paid of one of my loans (a small one), but it still deserves a BOOOOOYAHTSKI!

5. April Fools is tomorrow. Brian's dry erase markers + jello = an episode of The Office with more cursing and more tobacco.

6. A new car: sounds nice.

7. A new car: sound really really nice.

8. A new car: sounds like such a commitment and so much work + money

9. Sister and brother-in-law coming soon!

10. Cousin coming soon, too!

11. I suck at plot lines. Seriously. Non-fiction only? If that's the case, then what happens to Hal? Will he be stuck in purgatory forever?

12. I thought about skipping 12.

13. A phone call would be nice.

14. A bike ride would be perfect for this weather.

15. And a picnic.

Dear Chicago,

I miss you at your worst right now. I miss the way you smell, the way the wind blows in my face, and the way the wind blows your worst smell in my face right when I least expect it. I miss the cold, and the way the winter stays until you least expect it. I miss how it is 10 degrees colder down town than it is anywhere else on the brownline. I miss riding the redline late at night with all those freaking weirdos who try to touch my hair, solicite me for money, and tell me that the Sox pitchers are better than the Cubs...until the whole train boos 'em off the car. I miss riding the El, Orange, the Harold Washington Library, and Carols Country Pub. I miss Movies in the Park, even though I only saw half of one, and I miss that dirty old Lake Michigan. I miss riding my bike in the middle of traffic and people who know how to deal with dat. I miss telling people just what I think, and knowing that it's just ok because the people on the street are okay with that. I don't miss Lollapalooza, but I do miss walking on a break and listening to Kanye through the trees and wishing to be free. I miss all the theatres: all the ones I went to and all the ones I didn't go to; museums, too. I miss the snow, and I miss the people who know how to shovel a sidewalk, guard a space, and get outta there because there just isn't any other choice. I miss North Park (a little), King at Neffers (not really), and walking home from the el and the creeps that hollered no mattered how I looked (not really). I miss pizza every block and the best burritos in the world, and I miss boys who bought me a drink even when they didn't have shit to buy one with. I miss 2am being late and 4am being a novelty. I miss driving down Ashland, getting lost downtown, and knowing that Michigan Ave sucks. I wish I had jumped in Buckingham Fountain on my last night in the city, and I miss my Illinois drivers license.

Chicago. I miss you. You haven't seen the best of me yet. New Orleans is making it for you.

Pigeons-2, Molly-0, Cruel Fate-Infinity

Disclaimer: If you find some mild offensive language, well, offensive and by some strange chance actually care for pigeons, then read no further. This blog is not for you.

Seriously.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My apartment on Jefferson Davis has its pros and cons. Mostly cons, but the pros are pros. Realtors always say "location, location, location" is the key to a good place. I have to say, that is the reason that I took such a shining to this place. It's right on the bayou, two blocks from the streetcar and several good restaurants, and a short jaunt to the park. It was everything I wanted. The ventilation and insulation is atrocious, but the huge front windows, kitchen, and most importantly the balcony are what sold me. And I do say sold. I took one look at the balcony and couldn't get Jeff Davis off my mind (which sounds a little odd to be saying about the Father of the Confederacy). I moved in as soon as I could and took the front bedroom, off the balcony, foregoing having a bathroom in my bedroom so that I could enjoy the great view.

The love for prime real estate transcends boundaries: racial, gender, age, and BEAST. From the very founding of the Brotherhood of 216 (our apartment name), it was impossible to ignore the fact that pigeons had been there first. Dry poop on the porch showed their affinity for the place. Nails protruded upward on any flat landings on the balcony to deter any potential landing pads. There were even nails placed on the air conditioning unit outside my window.

We swept the poo off the porch and thought that was the end of that. It seemed as though the battle had been fought and won. But lo and behold, shortly after I moved in, I awoke to the sounds of pigeons gently cooing in the throes of passion during the wee hours of the morning. Having some previous experience of pigeons roosting on our back porch in college, I knew that this love-making needed to be truncated AS SOON AS POSSIBLE to avoid a long battle that would eventually come to a standstill.

During the Great Pigeon Battle of 2008, the tactic that seemed most effective early on was scaring the pigeons. So as the summer heat of 2009 sweltered and the pigeons cooed lovingly on my air condition, I resorted to my first plan of attack: Throwing shit at them. This actually was deemed quite effective. Because there are blinds on my windows, I could see out, but they couldn't see in, allowing for a perfect sneak attack offensive. When the sounds of hot pigeon sex began to rage in the morning, I screamed, "PIGEON BITCHES!" and launched a pillow at the window. Tiptoeing up to the window, peering out, and banging on the blinds also proved effective. They never knew when I might be there, since pigeons aren't smart enough to figure out my work schedule.

The battle was short, and I was victorious. Little did I know that would not be the end of the pigeons.

Spring has sprung, and all creatures are twitterpated when the weather gets nice and the days get longer. And the pigeon cooing sexy time returned. I groaned and searched my bed for something to throw at the window. I couldn't afford to throw any pillows, so I shouted out in anger, "SHUT UP!" which only proved to be ineffective. When I finally pulled myself from the bed, I checked their former spiky roost on my air condition. No pigeons. No nest. They must've learned their lesson good and roosted elsewhere.

And then I noticed it. Little sticks. An assortment of sticks tangled around the nails on the air condition. "This cannot be happening again," I said to myself. "They are not building a bunker to start a war again." Hopes in vain. Hopes dashed on the nails of a pigeon prevention board that CLEARLY is not doing its job.

The morning love making routine resumed, only quieter and more sporadic. I resumed my sneak attack tactic. But someone must have warned those bitches about it because it didn't phase them. They flew the coop and then flew back only minutes later. I mentally pulled up my Great Pigeon Battle '08 tactic book. How would I put something like a stuffed animal on the nest? I decided to hold off on that option for extreme circumstances, but considered putting a stuffed animal in the window. What pigeon wouldn't be afraid of a stuffed purple cow?!

I prepared to put the plan into action. Then I saw it. The nest had transformed from a hob-nob assemblance of sticks into a nest held together by nails. And resting gently amid this torture chamber nest was a white thing. AN EGG.

AW. HELL. NAW. YOU DIDN'T. OOOOOOH GIRL, YOU DID.

This battle just got UGLY. I returned to sneak attack with such a ferocity, that those pigeons didn't know what happened to them. I'd scare them off, knowing with a matter of time that they would be back to snuggle that little egg. I opened the blinds, and stood out of their line of vision, until they flew back. And just when they thought it was safe, I'd get 'em good.

But since, I (shockingly) have a life, I can't be there on guard for every minute of the day. And they returned. THIS TIME TO LAY ANOTHER DAMN EGG. Oh you wily pigeon bitches, bring it on.

After consulting my advisers, I decided opening the window adjacent to the air condition would allow me to sweep off the nest. WRONG. The window DOESN'T OPEN. All my brute strength in the world is not helping me.

So we are at a standstill. Although the sneak attacks have scared them off for the time being, it is just a matter of time. If I learned anything from the GPB08, it is that pigeons are the stupidest creatures on the planet with the shortest memory next to a goldfish. Which means, any minute, now, I will be suffering the sounds of pigeons sexy coos.

The window is stuck. The pigeons have TWO eggs. And all I've got is a sneak attack and a window that won't open. I might have to call in snipers extraordinaire, Nick and Noel. The saga will be continued and pictures of the nest to follow. . . .

Wednesday.

Tonight I practiced being bored. I don't really know the last time I didn't do anything. After a ten hour work day of being diplomatic, polite, encouraging, stern, and organized, I needed to do nothing. Literally nothing.

You have absolutely no idea how deep the ot do anything work ethic runs in your veins until you try to do nothing. I sat on my balcony and listened to WWOZ do their spring pledge drive. I refused to think about anything, but I kept ticking off a list of things that needed to do. I should call friends I haven't talked to in a while. I should do the dishes. I should pick up my room. I should, I should, I should. Every time I was near to standing up, I wondered how much longer I could sit there.

So I watched the cars going by. And I watched the clouds going by. I listened to the cicadas. I felt the humidity on my skin. I noticed the way the oak trees looked against the night sky, and the way the street like across the street shined just a little like Christmas lights. I looked at the old abandoned hospital that is catty-corner from my house and noticed how even it was beautiful in the witching hour. I imagined myself dancing to the blues and jazz on the radio.

I was truly bored. I haven't been bored in so long. It's a fascinating novelty. I can't say it is a habit I am going to enjoy forever. But tonight it was a choice. It was a lovely choice for a Wednesday.

Here a thing, there a thing, everywhere there's things things

I'm horribly afraid of messing things up. Any things. Big things, little things, work things, home things, outside things, indoor things, my things, your things, things things things!

My friend and co-work Beej knows me better than anyone down here. I don't know what this man is made of, but he has been patient with me when I have been strategizing on how not to mess up my things. And it always seems that the moment when the moment of brilliancy (as I like to call it) strikes me, Beej knocks it all down like a pile of blocks when he says, "Hey, Mose, what are you tryin' so hard for?" Call him my best friend, my life-coach, the Greek chorus in the saga of my life, my translator when it comes to the opposite sex. He manages to be neutral when all I want is someone to tell me what to do, and tells me what to do when I throw everyone else to the wind. Which maybe isn't what the Greek chorus does, and anyway, Beej isn't Greek, he's Creole. Anyway, the point of this post isn't to talk about how great Beej is, even though he does give a mean high five.

The point is, I spend too much of my time worrying myself about that whole Dr. Suess list of things. And I got the best advice from him. Which I know I've heard before. But it never made sense like this. "Just don't mess it up today," he said. Which I like. I can handle today. It's tomorrow that makes me worry. Not messing up right now seems so much more manageable.

Reread for Review

Boxes of Brown
molly losey

In those days we buried people in boxes brown
wood. We traded our smiling flushed faces for black
sullen ones. We ate humble pie and branded ourselves red
with guilt for what we could have done, and we hated the shade
of the grass. It was still green, still alive
when the people we loved were dead.

Remorse comes togehter with the smell of cypress and the dead
air of the sanctury matched the shade
the preacher prayed. His heavy, black
typewritten words with a gold paved certainty they were still alive
someplace beyond the brown
earth in which we were about to leave them and their red

sweaters. We cried hollow tears, ones that were red,
guilty, responsible, maybe. They were the dead
ones, but we, we were just as cold and black,
as inwardly lifeless as skin faded from brown
to an unmoving gray. We hastened to shade
ourselves from such a fate, absorbing the sacraments and coming alive

again. Now it’s a novelty, this being alive;
contradicted by the shade
of sackcloth reasoning and prayer that browns
and wilts with the heat of the slow burning fire. Thirsty and red,
forever at our backs faith won’t settle for dead,
will never leave us charcoaled and black.

Skirts and suits are embraces of black,
their toothy mouths slopping out red
words from the New Testament. Alive
as they say, means that the only dead
is sin. The living suffering the blandness of brown,
a dull sorry existence, an unpolished shade.

The day for us ended with the closing of windows and drawing of shades.
Tomorrow will be new, shining, alive.
We, we though, will have eyes that are red,
hearts that know only what it is to be black,
aching in such a way that we, too, become dead
and buried in a box that is brown.

In the black brown shade of the lonely red earth,
if the dead are weeping and gnashing their teeth,
and their red, tearstained stories tell they’re yet, yet alive.

--fall 2007

I will never never forget how I felt when I wrote the first draft of this poem and shared it with my poetry class. Never.