Friends,
I feel, right now, after three weeks of holding my breath, the ability to breathe. All day I have made that ffff sound through my lips, sucking in instead of out. I feel great. We have been here for almost three weeks, gone for almost four, and we finally have the time for a breather--something I'm grateful for. I have been thinking about this list of people whom I miss very much, you people who have held us up, and I'm glad finally to communicate with you.
I'll tell everything backwards, see, because that's how my memory will tell it best.
First of all, and this is so recent that it's tomorrow: Alli and I celebrate one full year of marriage tomorrow. We keep saying it out loud to each other. "One year. One year." (Every now and then we also add in a "Holy shit.") We know, it must sound to some folks like we're bragging about starting kindergarten, but it's a pretty big deal in my book. I can hardly picture what marriage looks like and I'm already married--it still has that "someday I'll be married" quality to it--so it's hard for me to swallow that I've been doing it for an entire year. Sometimes, though, I also think of marriage the way I thought of swimming laps back in high school--"One lap down, fifty or so to go...let's just make it through, man. You'll be hitting the showers soon enough." But that's mostly when I'm tired and cranky and nasty.
And now, for the biggest news: Yesterday, Alli and I made an offer on a condo--a cutesy blue thing with two bedrooms and stairs and grass in the front for Ray. It has a garage, something to put the drums in. It has a washer and a dryer. You know, it is a condo. The people who currently own the condo have accepted our offer. We, as of tonight, will have officially begun that whole escrowthingamabob. We are very excited about that, too, escpecially Alli, who while she sleeps has begun screaming the names of different shades of paint and various kinds of curtains.
Interlude: When I was in seventh grade I got braces, and I found out that there was this whole sub-culture of people with braces. At lunch time, people with braces would talk about how they had braces and how their moms wouldn't pack soda anymore in their lunches, and how they chew gum even though the orthodontist said not to, yeah, well, I try to styay away from the popcorn, but I just love Hubba-Bubba, things like that. And I found that their was a world of conversations to have, commonalities, things to laugh about, last week I got a whole King Size Snickers stuck here in the front and I couldn't get it out flor like an hour sort of conversation. And I found that that sort of thing, different conversations based on new parts of my life, have followed me around my whole life. In kindergarten through fifth grade it was who had cooties and how many milks you bought at lunch, then in college it was what's your major, and just out of college it was what's your job you found a job I can't believe it I still live with my mom I can't find a job did your hear about so-and-so he's making bank, and now, somehow, it's who is pregnant and when are you planning to have kids, and home owning. So, here is my first contribution to my new conversation: property taxes are a bitch.
Our dog, Ray, has gone backwards in his training. He poops now whenever and whereever he feels like it. We are convinced that he knows what is up--that we have moved to Pittsburgh, that he is taking revenge on us--who knows why, maybe he's a Chiefs' fan and he really hates the Steelers. We are also convinced that he journals when we're away, about his self-esteem and loneliness in that apartment, all alone, how the yellow bone wasn't as good as the dark brown one, why don't they give me the dark brown one, they hate me, I know they hate me, look at me here, all alone with this yellow bone. Think I'll poo over by their new rug--yes, that's it. Go Chiefs!
I have now met my incoming class of fellow MFAs, and two of our teachers. One, my favorite, is Chuck Kinder. He is one of those men who have managed to keep a ponytail even though he is bald. I don't know how they do it, but it is a mix of all the worst kinds of things: baldness, comb-over, mullet, ponytail, and mustache (Oh, by the way, he also has a mustache). He wears a trucker hat. He folds his arms over his belly. He mumbles. He was born in West Virginia. He has James Dean posters all over his house. He is either a famous writer or the guy in the truck next to me who keeps checking out my wife.
The day we arrived in Pittsburgh we had just driven out from Columbus, Ohio. Friends, now that I've seen more of it than I ever had, let me tell you about America. In case you ever wondered, or in case it ever entered your subconscious the way I found that it had somehow entered mine, when you see names of cities on maps in the same size font, say Los Angeles and Witchita both in Palatino 8, or New York and St. Louis in Geneva 12--it's not because those cities are the same in coolness or in stuff to do. It's because they have to make the map look good. And, using font size as a way to measure coolness would mean that there would only be like eight cities on any map.
In Columbus we stayed at a Kinghts Inn. There were approximately 87 savage kittens running around the parking lot, full of rabies and other such harmful diseases. There were no momma cats to be seen, which I did not understand. Were they like the smurfs, without the means for reproduction yet, still, somehow, there they are--the smurflings. (Either they were magic, reporducing by getting water on them like the Gremlins, or Smurfette got a lot of action.) The kittens stared at us on our way in and out of our motel room. At around midnight, someone pounded on our door. It was loud and angry and horrifying, because I don't know anyone in Columbus, Ohio. But, because I'm used to trusting people, I pulled on some pants and put on a shirt, walking to the door, about to open it. Then, my manly side came out. Wait a minute, I said to myself. I don't know anyone in Columbus. I am a stranger here. If this guy has a machete he could do many bad things to both me and my wife. Plus, I just bought a brand new Dell. No way he's getting that. I will not open the door. I looked through the hole in the door. I said, Who is it? And the guy said, I'm looking for Ant. Is Ant there? I was afraid. He was rubbing his nose and I could make out that his shirt was inside out. I interpreted his nose-rubbing as evidence for his years-long addiction to cocaine, or maybe, like me, he was allergic to the kittens outside and needed a tissue. But who looks for a guy named Ant? That sounded like a code name, an underground code name, something the cops couldn't trace. And his shirt, his inside-out shirt. That was the kicker. He had to have been a druggie. Only drug addicts have such neglect for neatness, appearance and hygeine. Where's Ant? he asked again. I put on a very manly voice. You got the wrong room, buddy, I told him. He ain't here. Yes, I actually said Ain't. I don't use that word. I was taught not to by my mother. But I said it to imply that I'm as uneducated as you are, pal, and probably just as dangerous, so get the eff away from he re before I sic my pit bull Ray on your ass.
Then, when he left, we got the hell out of there.
We packed up and drove about an hour down the road, to a Motel 6, and slept soundly.
Our movers showed up two weeks late, which means Alli and I slept on an air mattress, washed plasticwear in the sink, and spent most of our time eating Top Ramen. We had only one pot to cook stuff in, and we made Ramen. We hate Ramen now.
Alli has a job. She will start working at Southwestern Human Services next week, as a social worker--case manager--after a great set of references secured her position. I have a talented, loving wife, who cares about people, and they know it. I am sometimes awed by how good she is. As for me, I start classes on Tuesday, and I have felt very intimidated. Some of the people in my program have already been published. It intimidatese me bad. But, somehow, that I've only known them for two hours and I already know where they've been published tells me something about them, that they are intimidated too. After some thought, I think things will be all right. Chuck is nice, and I like to read books and write things, which I think is a plus.
Alli and I must be off--our parking meter is going to expire soon (here at the Library). Our own internet connection has not yet begun in our apartment, the reason it has been difficult to write back to those of you who have written us--we usually have a very limited amount of time and a lot of internet stuff to accomplish--leaving very little time for the fun stuff. I am glad to feel at least a little connection to you right now as I write this--someone from home will read this, and I know that person, and I am glad for it.
We love you very much, and miss you too.
Carlos
I feel, right now, after three weeks of holding my breath, the ability to breathe. All day I have made that ffff sound through my lips, sucking in instead of out. I feel great. We have been here for almost three weeks, gone for almost four, and we finally have the time for a breather--something I'm grateful for. I have been thinking about this list of people whom I miss very much, you people who have held us up, and I'm glad finally to communicate with you.
I'll tell everything backwards, see, because that's how my memory will tell it best.
First of all, and this is so recent that it's tomorrow: Alli and I celebrate one full year of marriage tomorrow. We keep saying it out loud to each other. "One year. One year." (Every now and then we also add in a "Holy shit.") We know, it must sound to some folks like we're bragging about starting kindergarten, but it's a pretty big deal in my book. I can hardly picture what marriage looks like and I'm already married--it still has that "someday I'll be married" quality to it--so it's hard for me to swallow that I've been doing it for an entire year. Sometimes, though, I also think of marriage the way I thought of swimming laps back in high school--"One lap down, fifty or so to go...let's just make it through, man. You'll be hitting the showers soon enough." But that's mostly when I'm tired and cranky and nasty.
And now, for the biggest news: Yesterday, Alli and I made an offer on a condo--a cutesy blue thing with two bedrooms and stairs and grass in the front for Ray. It has a garage, something to put the drums in. It has a washer and a dryer. You know, it is a condo. The people who currently own the condo have accepted our offer. We, as of tonight, will have officially begun that whole escrowthingamabob. We are very excited about that, too, escpecially Alli, who while she sleeps has begun screaming the names of different shades of paint and various kinds of curtains.
Interlude: When I was in seventh grade I got braces, and I found out that there was this whole sub-culture of people with braces. At lunch time, people with braces would talk about how they had braces and how their moms wouldn't pack soda anymore in their lunches, and how they chew gum even though the orthodontist said not to, yeah, well, I try to styay away from the popcorn, but I just love Hubba-Bubba, things like that. And I found that their was a world of conversations to have, commonalities, things to laugh about, last week I got a whole King Size Snickers stuck here in the front and I couldn't get it out flor like an hour sort of conversation. And I found that that sort of thing, different conversations based on new parts of my life, have followed me around my whole life. In kindergarten through fifth grade it was who had cooties and how many milks you bought at lunch, then in college it was what's your major, and just out of college it was what's your job you found a job I can't believe it I still live with my mom I can't find a job did your hear about so-and-so he's making bank, and now, somehow, it's who is pregnant and when are you planning to have kids, and home owning. So, here is my first contribution to my new conversation: property taxes are a bitch.
Our dog, Ray, has gone backwards in his training. He poops now whenever and whereever he feels like it. We are convinced that he knows what is up--that we have moved to Pittsburgh, that he is taking revenge on us--who knows why, maybe he's a Chiefs' fan and he really hates the Steelers. We are also convinced that he journals when we're away, about his self-esteem and loneliness in that apartment, all alone, how the yellow bone wasn't as good as the dark brown one, why don't they give me the dark brown one, they hate me, I know they hate me, look at me here, all alone with this yellow bone. Think I'll poo over by their new rug--yes, that's it. Go Chiefs!
I have now met my incoming class of fellow MFAs, and two of our teachers. One, my favorite, is Chuck Kinder. He is one of those men who have managed to keep a ponytail even though he is bald. I don't know how they do it, but it is a mix of all the worst kinds of things: baldness, comb-over, mullet, ponytail, and mustache (Oh, by the way, he also has a mustache). He wears a trucker hat. He folds his arms over his belly. He mumbles. He was born in West Virginia. He has James Dean posters all over his house. He is either a famous writer or the guy in the truck next to me who keeps checking out my wife.
The day we arrived in Pittsburgh we had just driven out from Columbus, Ohio. Friends, now that I've seen more of it than I ever had, let me tell you about America. In case you ever wondered, or in case it ever entered your subconscious the way I found that it had somehow entered mine, when you see names of cities on maps in the same size font, say Los Angeles and Witchita both in Palatino 8, or New York and St. Louis in Geneva 12--it's not because those cities are the same in coolness or in stuff to do. It's because they have to make the map look good. And, using font size as a way to measure coolness would mean that there would only be like eight cities on any map.
In Columbus we stayed at a Kinghts Inn. There were approximately 87 savage kittens running around the parking lot, full of rabies and other such harmful diseases. There were no momma cats to be seen, which I did not understand. Were they like the smurfs, without the means for reproduction yet, still, somehow, there they are--the smurflings. (Either they were magic, reporducing by getting water on them like the Gremlins, or Smurfette got a lot of action.) The kittens stared at us on our way in and out of our motel room. At around midnight, someone pounded on our door. It was loud and angry and horrifying, because I don't know anyone in Columbus, Ohio. But, because I'm used to trusting people, I pulled on some pants and put on a shirt, walking to the door, about to open it. Then, my manly side came out. Wait a minute, I said to myself. I don't know anyone in Columbus. I am a stranger here. If this guy has a machete he could do many bad things to both me and my wife. Plus, I just bought a brand new Dell. No way he's getting that. I will not open the door. I looked through the hole in the door. I said, Who is it? And the guy said, I'm looking for Ant. Is Ant there? I was afraid. He was rubbing his nose and I could make out that his shirt was inside out. I interpreted his nose-rubbing as evidence for his years-long addiction to cocaine, or maybe, like me, he was allergic to the kittens outside and needed a tissue. But who looks for a guy named Ant? That sounded like a code name, an underground code name, something the cops couldn't trace. And his shirt, his inside-out shirt. That was the kicker. He had to have been a druggie. Only drug addicts have such neglect for neatness, appearance and hygeine. Where's Ant? he asked again. I put on a very manly voice. You got the wrong room, buddy, I told him. He ain't here. Yes, I actually said Ain't. I don't use that word. I was taught not to by my mother. But I said it to imply that I'm as uneducated as you are, pal, and probably just as dangerous, so get the eff away from he re before I sic my pit bull Ray on your ass.
Then, when he left, we got the hell out of there.
We packed up and drove about an hour down the road, to a Motel 6, and slept soundly.
Our movers showed up two weeks late, which means Alli and I slept on an air mattress, washed plasticwear in the sink, and spent most of our time eating Top Ramen. We had only one pot to cook stuff in, and we made Ramen. We hate Ramen now.
Alli has a job. She will start working at Southwestern Human Services next week, as a social worker--case manager--after a great set of references secured her position. I have a talented, loving wife, who cares about people, and they know it. I am sometimes awed by how good she is. As for me, I start classes on Tuesday, and I have felt very intimidated. Some of the people in my program have already been published. It intimidatese me bad. But, somehow, that I've only known them for two hours and I already know where they've been published tells me something about them, that they are intimidated too. After some thought, I think things will be all right. Chuck is nice, and I like to read books and write things, which I think is a plus.
Alli and I must be off--our parking meter is going to expire soon (here at the Library). Our own internet connection has not yet begun in our apartment, the reason it has been difficult to write back to those of you who have written us--we usually have a very limited amount of time and a lot of internet stuff to accomplish--leaving very little time for the fun stuff. I am glad to feel at least a little connection to you right now as I write this--someone from home will read this, and I know that person, and I am glad for it.
We love you very much, and miss you too.
Carlos
posted by Carlos Antonio Delgado at 2:24 PM
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