Ten minutes ago we were sworn in. All twenty some odd number of us stood straight, our right arms raised, and repeated the same oath of office the members of the president’s cabinet must agree to. Two vital parts of this oath stuck out to me, (a) “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” and (b) “So help me God.” No badge, no gun, just a plastic ID that I must write my own name on in ball point pen and wear on a lanyard above my waist. I have sworn to defend my country’s constitution against all enemies, but have no tools with which to do so save for my own ingenuity and a semi-respectable pay rate.

If an old woman doesn’t appreciate me asking her how many of her grandchildren were squatting here on April 1st, how many teacups were housed, how many cats she’s holding, and how many illegal immigrants she’s hired to care for those cats, so attempts to crack my skull with a wooden rolling pin – what do I do? They don’t cover defending your country’s constitution against a domestic grandmother. Do I squeal pleas for my life? Hold a crucifix to her with my eyes shut and my heart hoping it’s a quick death? This oath makes me uneasy. It’s the same oath military officers take. So help me God.

I walked into a cafe this morning and boasted my recent taking of this oath, and made it sound especially important.

“I was sworn in as a federal officer yesterday,” I said to them.

“What?!” they said, amazed, obviously thinking I would soon be carrying a badge and steel revolver. “For what?”

“For the Census Bureau,” I replied. They broke into laughter, looked at each other, and handed me my tiny cup of espresso. I reminded myself that I was still important and still a man; that they had no effect on my federal oath of office. That I am, in fact, vital to the health of the United States Constitution.

If I meet anyone famous, I’m not allowed to tell you. If I find Osama Bin Laden, as one of the women in my class dumbly asked, I am unable to report him to the officials. Sean, the young and and vivacious man who does in fact do his job better than anyone in the room could, replies, “If you find Osama Bin Laden, someone is straight slacking; don’t worry about it.”

After the class ends, after 7 hours of peanut gallery-like comments , ridiculous questions, and a lengthy fingerprinting activity, I am freed and tell Sean, “You did a good job, man. It’s a tough crowd.” His fellow associate who wandered in after the end of class, an orange bearded man of Irish decent, says to me while chewing a baby carrot, “Hey man, want to join a cooler group? We’ve got beer and hookers.” This bearded man’s remark renews my faith in the structure of the federal government; his stature and disposition prove to me that our country is 100% sure of what it’s doing and will, above all else, make its constitution a priority – despite the fact that it might be hundreds of years old and out of date.

Being a U.S. Census Officer I feel a little bit like a gay man who’s married to a straight woman: I’m not totally faithful, I think it’s fun, I really do care for her, but I just don’t know how long this marriage will last until I come out. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but they’re an equal opportunity employer.

A few quick questions you might all be wondering. In our constitution it states that a census will be taken every ten years. It began in 1790 and has been conducted every ten years, in years ending in zero, ever since. This census determines how many representatives each state will have in the House of Representatives, as well as how much public transportation we need and how big to make our schools. These are not its only purposes, but these are some of the most important. So when I come to your house, don’t ask me why I’m doing it. Just answer the ten questions. Please. And I wont mind if you complement me on my sweet messenger bag.

I’ll leave you with a quote I read on a bumper sticker, “Dissent is the highest form of patriotism.” – this quote is often attributed to Thomas Jefferson or Howard Zinn, but no one really knows. Regardless of who said it, it’s something worth thinking about.

David Wagoner wears denim buttons-ups unbuttoned to the third button with different colored turtlenecks beneath. A Native American inspired (perhaps made) belt buckle holds his pants tight with the dignity of eternal youth. He still does his hair everyday, snowy white it holds close to his head, combed with an unmatched slickness. His glasses are large, beautiful relics from the 70′s, if they were tinted they would immediately be the most fashionable sunglasses within 30 miles – that’s him, that’s David Wagoner; even in his old age he’s on the verge of being completely fashionable. His poetry still is.

Legends are legendary because of their elusiveness. As the recent attention on Tiger Woods has revealed, a legend rarely remains a legend when put directly in the spotlight, or when the facts of their life are explicitly revealed. To be a legend one must master the art of paraphrase, solitude, and performance. For the past three weeks I’ve been taught by a legend; a poet born in 1926 who worked with and outlived the likes of Theodore Roethke, Richard Hugo, Elizabeth Bishop, and countless others. David Wagoner has mastered the ability to remain a master. The kind of person who can make a silly remark and yet, somehow, it’s received as a piece of backwards-wisdom; intentionally said in a silly way so that we’ll learn an important lesson.

“Stay alive,” he said wisely and not without a grim skepticism. “If you plan to write good poetry, you must stay alive.” I’ve scribbled these wise axioms all throughout my notebook. I take them, at first, as complete truth. Old folks, especially successful ones such as David, have an innate conviction that, unless you’re simply not listening, forces you to believe – even if momentarily – everything they say..

“Theodore Roethke was in this room,” David says, crossing one leg over the other, nimble even in his eighties, “when he was arrested for threatening a class with a can opener; the state police came and arrested him. He was incoherent, of course.” His voice is musical, it booms like thunder but soothes like cough syrup. He told us that to master poetry we must master the same abilities a classical singer does: pitch, tone, timbre, rhythm. “Two floors below us Allen Ginsberg performed one of his first readings of the poem ‘Howl.’ This building, Parrington Hall, is haunted by the spirits of many poets, Roethke, Ginsberg, and so many more. Roethke instructed me in this hall. That was back when instructors wore suits and ties and coats, and took their suit coats off as soon as they got the chance.” He always finishes his stories of old with a chuckle that says we could never understand and that we probably think he’s trying to be funny.

There’s certainly something demystifying about being in David’s presence – he insists upon being called David – not unlike if you learned the science behind love it would become less magical. So many people seem to believe that the ability to write poetry is some natural, magical gift that can’t be taught – honed, perhaps, but not taught. David seems to think it’s a bit of natural ability, but that there’s also a science to it. “You’re poetry is not sacred in this room,” he said on the first day. “We will tear it apart.” One of the first things he tore apart was the prose poem, something I hold rather dear to my heart. “It used to be that poetry and prose were completely separate forms, that’s no longer the case. I don’t see what you could gain from writing a poem without intentional line breaks. And either use punctuation correctly or don’t use it at all. You live in an era where there are no rules,” he says. “Remember that.”

A few minutes later he tells us not to capitalize the first letter of a line unless it’s the beginning of a sentence, and a couple classes later not to part an attributive adjective and it’s noun with a line break, then he tells us not to have more than twice as many attributive adjectives as we have lines. One moment he tells us there are no rules, then the next he lays them out clearly. And of course he makes the suggestion that we write out a poem in prose first, no line breaks, no poetic constraints – just write and write until we have no more to say on the subject. Even the oldest, wisest, most successful poets can be a walking contradiction, maybe that makes a poet. It’s humbling and yet a little scary, too. How would you feel if Jesus came to you, a devoted christian, and started saying hypocritical things and making confused suggestions? I suppose your faith would likely falter, but at the same time you’d realize that Jesus wasn’t that much better than you – what’s stopping you from being a modern day Jesus?

After a pregnant pause in which the fourteen or so students in the room glance slowly around at each other, he says, “Every time I say something a little voice in the back of my head says,” he reaches back and touches the back of his head as if he knows the voice’s exact location, “’yeah, but the opposite’s also true.’” And he immediately redeems himself of his previous contradictions. He’s quite possibly the most coherent human being I’ve ever met. Unfaltering in his beliefs, yet acknowledging of the fact that they’re likely wrong – everyone’s likely wrong.

David often spends 3-5 second intervals between statements, he creates these long and somber silences, not quite awkward so much as meditative. The subtext of his silence says, “You should all be thinking of ideas right now greater than the one I just had.” They’re intimidating silences in which I often scribble ideas in all caps in my notebook – I’ve recently learned that my writing is somewhat legible if written in all caps. He often counters his booming criticisms with a tiny chirp of praise; he knocks you off your feet and doesn’t grab you by the hand and pull you back up, but merely whispers in your ear, “I suggest you get back up.” He takes confidence and energy.

Coming into David Wagoner’s knowledgeable arms I was excited, thinking he must hold the skeleton key to poetic success. After his class I would be able to open any door, anywhere, and turn whatever was inside to art. His age, his reverence, his reputation – his first book of poems was published at 22 and he hasn’t stopped since; he’s well into his eighties now. All of these seemed to be evidence that he would be able to turn me into a successful poet. Of course, this was a naïve, overly excited, and headstrong belief.

Masters can teach us what they did to master a thing, but masters are considered masters because they did something striking and unique – something never done before. No one can teach you how to do something that’s never been done before.

“A plains Indian,” he once said, “does not think the same way that a woods Indian does. If you place a woods Indian on the plains he will feel vulnerable; a plains Indian in the woods will feel trapped.” The Indian out of his comfort zone will feel fear, the Indian must turn that fear to positive energy and will himself to innovation, and always say to himself, “Yeah, but the opposite’s also true.”

David once said his wife calls the following poem his “cash cow.” It’s been reproduced in multiple languages, in thousands of mediums, and read in thousands of different places; in keeping to this tradition, I am reproducing it here, for you, just in case you get lost:

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

I’ve been climbing this ladder, that’s all I really can do. Climb climb climb and, every once in a while, stop at a floor to look in a window. See how people are getting along. Hope to see some broken reflection of myself in glass meant to be looked through, not reflected upon.

Just when you think you know everything, realize you’re only being tricked. The point at which everything seems clear is the point just before your reality is overturned. It’s easy to be proud of how well you get through hard times, but it’s harder, for me at least, to be proud of the times when I got by and it wasn’t hard.

I had an amazing summer. I went on a road trip to California, I met so many new people; pretty much began a new life. But when you meet new people you inevitably lose others. To think we understand the purpose of someone’s relation to us is to claim to know more than anyone’s ever known. That’s probably why everyone gets divorced now. They all think they’re signing a contract to relieve their loneliness, only to find they’re signing up to spend years with someone they don’t even know.

I sometimes toy with the idea of just traveling. Backpacking through Europe, learning about the world and writing about its beauty. But it all comes back to that saying, Wherever you go, there you’ll be. I go through waves of content and discontent. Every time I feel a positive wave coming on I hope that this time it will stay. But I should never be so foolish.

Once, I met two amazing people at nearly the same time. These people were on opposite ends of the spectrum. One romantic, involved, clever, sincere, but almost wholly untouchable. The other receptive, playful, intelligent, and hungry for knowledge. Both beautiful. These people got along well enough, but by no means were best friends. I, however, managed to be best friends with both of them. I could connect with both of them unlike either of them were able to connect with each other. I wasn’t so much a bridge but a system of underground tunnels to both. Each of them often spoke of the other and I felt conflicted in their intentions. A game of tug of war it seemed. There was the first, she couldn’t hide a thing with her eyes. And the second, I fear could do it all too well. Neither of them was better than the other but they, as well as me, have at least one thing in common—we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing aside from making it alive and in bed every night. If we’re lucky we might even get some sleep.

My mind is a battlefield and the armies are made entirely of me dropping little me bombs all over my cities and drowning innocent me’s in rivers, imprisoning caught me’s, me’s jumping out of burning buildings, planes of me flying over runways made of hardened me.

And then a me plane drops a nuclear me on myself and I blow up into billions of me. Now billions of me are running around trying to patch up radiated me’s and my bits of limbs are lying around bits of my shrapnel. A mushroom me rises above it all and laughs an impenetrable laugh.

Me’s winning.

Me’s losing.

Me wins.

Me loses.

Me sits in a corner of the house and strums away at the guitar. Me taps away at the piano. Me sings in a closet. Sometimes I get tired of myself. But like the rotten stepmother you can’t get rid of, I can’t get rid of myself. I am my own rotten stepmother who tells me I’m ugly and needs to do my chores. I am the rotten stepmother who tells myself I’m not pretty and I can’t go to the ball. I’m the rotten rotten stepmother who wishes she could get rid of me but keep the husband that she married into the family for.

Maybe if I were forced to go on a date with myself to a ball, I would learn to like me.
“Hello, my name’s Daniel.”
“Hello, Daniel. My name’s Daniel too.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you.”
“Shall we dance?”
“I’ve always wanted to, but don’t really know how.”
“Me too.”
“I used to dance uncontrollably wild jigs at weddings when I was younger. Rose between the teeth, sliding on my knees—that sort of thing.”
“How strange, me too.”
“Would you like some punch?”
“Does it have lemon?”
“I think so.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I don’t like lemon either.”
“I’m picky.”
“So am I.”
“It’s nice that we find so much in common.”
“They say opposites attract.”
“They don’t know anything.”
“No they don’t.”
“But then again, who does?”
“Not me.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much.”
“Me neither.”
“Shall we sit and have something to eat?”
“We shall.”
“Fantastic.”
“Steak?”
“Pas moi, c’est tres mal.”
“D’accord.”
“So you can speak French, too?”
“Only sort of. Je parle francais tres mal.”
“Yeah, moi aussi.”
“Chicken fried steak?”
“I’d love it but always regret it. And it doesn’t seem appropriate for a ball.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“And to drink? A red wine with your seafood?”
“I know red’s good with meats and fish, but I really do prefer white.”
“The similarities between us truly are endless aren’t they?”
“I think they might be.”
“I think dessert should be bigger than the main course.”
“As do I.”
“What’re your innermost desires?”
“What’re YOURS?”
“They’re hard to articulate.”
“So are mine.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Me too. What do you write?”
“I don’t much like this question, but I always answer it. Personal essay, short stories, and poetry mostly. You?”
“Same.”
“I’d also like to teach or do some sort of social work. Something for the greater good. I like music too. I’m a musician. I want to make music for movies and life.”
“You’ve got a lot of lofty aspirations.”
“As do you.”
“Think you’ll attain them?”
“Probably, but maybe not.”
“Would you rather have a beer?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Waiter, two salmons and two beers, please.”
“I don’t like it when people order for me, I wish you hadn’t.”
“Yes, me neither, but I do like to be in control.”
“As do I. Which is why I don’t like others to order for me.”
“Are you a control freak?”
“No.”
“Do you always take things personally?”
Silence.
“What’s your favorite song?”
“Stupid question.”
“Author?”
“Dumb.”
“Band.”
“You’re very persistent.”
“That’s my curse and my gift.”
“Do you like winning?”
“Yes. Who doesn’t?”
“Do you like losing?”
“No. Who does?”
“I do like the lack of responsibility involved with losing. There’s definitely less of a reputation to defend.”
“You can only go up.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re rather sarcastic.”
“As are you.”
“Yet another surprising similarity.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Apparently that’s not true.”
“You’re good looking but not quite.”
“Uh, thanks, you too.”
“Just being honest. It’s like you’re rather intriguing in appearance but covered in a dab of doofus.”
“I think I’m going to need a few drinks if we’re going to survive the night.”
“Yeah, me too.”

Today’s the one day of the year where going out in your pajamas is absolutely acceptable, thought not in the least peculiar. In America, Christmas is a holiday you celebrate even if you don’t celebrate Christmas. America shuts down, and the only thing left to do is look at an evergreen decorated with lights and unwrap some paper-wrapped items, too. I went to my mother’s house in Olalla yesterday to see her for the Christmas season. The house had never been so clean before. I went out to their back forty and disposed of some Halloween pumpkins that I still had sitting in my car—on Christmas Eve. My brother came with his wife and their kids, all bouncing with Christmas cheer and warm love.

Today is Christmas. Today I am in a coffee shop at 9:36 in the morning, and strangers are saying “Merry Christmas” to one another—not altogether strange—but the smiles that accompany their sentiments are. I enjoy watching others spread and absorb the Christmas cheer. Sometimes it’s nice to live the Christmas season vicariously.

I don’t really like how the holidays are less, for me anyways, a time of warmth, relaxation, and goodwill, and more an attempt to fit as many people into your schedule in the course of a day as possible. Every call from family members makes me want to ignore it and sleep. It’s overwhelming. What’s more overwhelming is the energy it takes to go to family gatherings. Their littered with people who look at me with a curious eye. On my father’s side they look at me funny cause I’m not Mormon, because I’m “sensitive and artistic,” because I’m quiet and disagree with much of the things they say, because I don’t understand how we can be so different and force ourselves to come together regardless. But I also know we’re similar. I just don’t know quite how. And that scares me. On my mom’s side (of which I never see more than about 5 of them at any one time), they just have absolutely no idea who I am. I’m a phantom who sits in the corner of the room hiding all sorts of secrets and abilities. They all watch with an anxious eye, waiting for me to perform a trick or dazzle them with my magic. I never do. At most, I’ll say something snide and, if they catch it, I’ll feel bad for it.

But really, it’s my favorite holiday. It always has been. I think anyone who disagrees has to provide some fairly substantial justification otherwise. I mean, St. Valentine’s Day? Whose idea was that? St. Make-The-Lonely-People-Feel-Lonelier-Day. It’s just a bad idea. I’m bearing witness to the strangest thing right now because it’s Christmas. There’s a father with his teenage daughter and son and they’re all getting along. He’s asking them what they’d like to drink. They’re past the you-get-hot-chocolate-by-default stage, which I’m sure they’re glad of. I feel as if on Christmas we force the world to operate the way we wish it did most days. Or we try to anyways. Every holiday I’ve ever spent—anywhere, with any of my family—has basically been a day of unwrapping disagreements and stuffing stockings with shitty arguments. Perhaps there’s a way to go back and re-do my childhood Christmases. The weird thing is that at the time, I enjoyed Christmas, for the most part. Sometimes I feel like my childhood was only terribly troubling in retrospect. As if one day I woke up and realized, “Actually that wasn’t how your childhood was supposed to go.” Ignorance is bliss and can’t be blamed. Really, if you’re ignorant you’re not missing out on anything. It’s only those who’re above your ignorance that have any trouble with it.

The only place at this time of day where the ice remains is in the shadows. The sunlight melts the rest away. Walking in the shadows is a dangerous idea. The evergreen forests are full of sadness, all wishing they were decorated too, but knowing that it’s only the domesticated trees that get the privilege, and for this privilege they must also soon die. But such a way to die. Such a way to live. The tree gets to guard those valuable gifts, be a shelter for the dollars that’ve converted from bills to thoughtful boxes. Christmas is the one day of the year that one of the deadly sins becomes, instead, a graceful gift. We hang our stockings above the chimney with care because our feet are never so warm as we’d like them to be. We must create a day of cheer and comfort because we lack it naturally. Without a human construction of happiness we would merely remain bipedal animals with enhanced cognition. Santa, the fat man, gets to be a fat lie, but a white one as white as his own beard. A safe lie. Maybe we all really start to grow up when we stop believing in Santa Clause. But then, do we even know now that he’s not real? What would make him real? Would he have to fly around in a sleigh with reindeer and bring gifts? What if there was merely a man who lived on the North Pole in red and white garb, all fat and jolly, by the name of Chris Cringle; would Santa Clause then be real? And what’s with the red nose? Is it really anything to be much embarrassed about in the first place, Rudolph? Perhaps I’m taking this all a bit too seriously. Regardless of my cynicism, Christmas cheer is evident in the streets and corridors of Seattle’s frozen feet. Whether it’s innate or a human construction is irrelevant. Most everybody is happier on this the 25th of December. And for this, so am I.

As you said, and as is typical, it is customary for a renter to give his landlord 30 days notice before moving out. In this same vein, it is customary for a landlord to give at least 24 hours notice before subjecting the tenant’s apartment to a “routine checkup.” I’ve never received notice before any of your “routine checkups.” Additionally, in order for you to have checked up on the apartment, you had to first scan the driveway for my car, knock to see if I was in and then let yourself in if it turned out I wasn’t. As it was, all of the aforementioned criteria were met, and early this morning you let yourself into my apartment for a “routine checkup.” What you found, undoubtedly, were many packed boxes, scattered laundry, cleaning supplies, garbage bags, and a trail of leaving all throughout the place. This, as you might’ve guessed, was not rightfully yours to see. It could very well have been my very personal belongings thought to be safely guarded in my own personal space. As you’ve proven, this space is anything but. And is it also turns out, these were my personal items. But you weren’t so wrong in asserting that I’m moving out. I might, however, deem it more of an escape.

I should’ve been alarmed when we first met. When, though kindly, but with a touch of creepiness, you, a 60 year-old gay man, told me I was the cutest person who’d come to see the apartment. I was flattered as much as an open-minded straight man ought to be flattered. I took it, one might say, with a bit of pride and mocked it up to your gentle outgoing persona. I should’ve been further alarmed when you told me I was welcome to use the hot tub with you if I so pleased, and nude, we should fairly mention. But I was naïve and took it as an extension of compassion, the outstretched arm of a gracious older man. What I failed to notice is that this was anything but an outstretched arm. This offer was merely a figurative penis in my figurative mind, figuratively raping my all too accepting disposition. When, two or three times, I accidentally stumbled upon your naked hot tub gatherings, I was less alarmed than I ought to have been. More than once it was with other naked men. You also offered me, instead of the mother-in-law apartment above the garage, to move into a room directly inside your home.

I wish I’d taken the advice of my dearest friends closer to heart. The dearest of the dearest told me one evening, “He wants your body.” I laughed it off, though accepting that it contained a considerable amount of truth. She’s told me this many times. I’ve laughed it off many times. I’m not laughing anymore. My figurative anus is gaping from many a nights’ torturous rape à grâce de votre figurative penis. And it’s not-so-figuratively ethical. I recall when I would encounter you in the middle of your nude baths, “Hey, boy,” you’d say to me. Looking back, that’s fucking creepy. I suppose what I’m getting at is why haven’t you ever just properly asked me to bed with you? I would, respectfully, decline. But even so, you would move from creeper status to the much more respectable “acknowledged pervert.” Instead, you remain somewhere between; the advantageous homosexual with figurative raping tendencies. And you told me once that you used to be a counselor. You have a degree in psychology, in fact. What. The. Fuck’s. Up. With. That?

When I first came to view the apartment, you showed me the master suite in your “dream home,” the home which has a room for massage therapy, which you showed me too. In retrospect, I find it flamboyantly creepy that you showed it to me, and further creepy that you proclaimed your massage techniques above those of other mortal men. In this master suite you showed me, lied a bottle of lube in a rather phallically shaped bottle. I have often wondered since if this had been strategically placed; if you were silently asking me to a feisty bout of gay sex. I looked at it, looked away. Made mention of it to my dearest of dear friends, to which they responded, “No way. Daniel, he wants you. Watch your back.” I laughed it off. But…I’m not laughing anymore. Nothing’s funny. My asshole’s aching. I’ve had too much. You also have a shop in the basement with many power tools; a basement where you devise many machines for horrible uses. Your house’s worth is practically invaluable. It’s a recently built craftsman home. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands of dollars line the insides of its walls. And you bake, you told me once. “So be not surprised, boy,” you said, “if you find fresh brownies upon your doorstep.” “I shant,” I replied warmly. And they did appear. But then a couple of days later, from within the fridge of my locked apartment, appeared a nicely packaged homemade container of barbecued meatballs. My personal space had been for the first time, but certainly not the last, violated by your balls. Then it was lasagna. And finally more cookies. Then you offered me clothes. And when I would come upon you doing the laundry in our shared space, or collide with you inevitably in the hall, you’d swipe your hand down my back and act as if it was a gesture of fatherly kindness. But fathers ought not have erections during such gestures, nor eyes that unbutton shirts and pants.

No, I may not give you 30 days notice, but please do understand why I have not. In this letter you’ll find, I’m sure, many valid reasons why I’ve felt violated and scandalized many times in your presence. And maybe I’ve completely misinterpreted your demeanor. Perhaps your disposition is one uncontrollably covered in false perversion. I cannot discern with absolute certainty your intent. I can, however, realize when for the benefit of my own health, I must escape a situation in which I feel uncomfortably exposed. I should not, I think, feel that I’m naked before your eyes when in reality I’m dressed in many layers of clothes bound tightly by a tie around my neck and a belt about my waist. So please do understand why I didn’t give notice, and why you may never hear from me again. Also, it would be good for you to learn from this, if possible, that humans prefer to be treated as such. An innocent person should not, in my opinion, feel imprisoned in an uncharacteristically perverted house controlled by alarm systems and micromanaged methods by which you may determine my exact location at any time of the day. My discomfort is clear, I need not persist; your position is not so clear, and in this lies the evident chaos of our current debate. I hope, sincerely, that you find someone who can live within the confines of your densely polluted world.

Sincerely,

Your Violated Tenant in the Room Above the Garage in the House Surrounded With Perversion. (Who’s Leaving Pronto.)

The wrath of finals is evidenced by the exclamation of one of my friends, Cassandra, also a local barista, “You’re here like seven times a day,” she said to me, referring to Diva Espresso where she works. My only defense is an embarrassed, “It’s the only good place to study.” Which is mostly true. I can’t study at home. But honestly, how embarrassing. And then Karli backs up Cassandra’s sentiment with a, “Well, you are there more than you’re at home.” Which is totally true.

Isn’t home such a laughable concept? I think it is. Of course, my saying that home is a laughable concept is merely a coping mechanism. (It’s easier to say that than to pretend you’ve got the time to pull out a long chaise and permit me outline all of my internal complications which have caused this I-never-feel-at-home complex.) But I sometimes wonder how many people feel less at home at home than say, at Diva Espresso, or rather regrettably, Denny’s. No, I would not feel comfortable stripping down and changing into a different outfit, or running to the bathroom naked, or any other of these various at-home activities in either of these places, but my general day-to-day actions are quite a bit more comfortable at Diva or Denny’s than they are at home. Sitting and reading a book for instance, is easier at either of these places. Eating a meal. Drinking a cup of water. Writing this. Or even at other peoples’ houses. In someone else’s house, compiled of their memories and materialistic endeavors, I feel more warmth than I’ve ever felt in the places I’ve lived. My first home was the closest to home I’ve ever felt. And that was a sad excuse for a home. Arguments. Fights. OCD. Overgrown lawns. Fenced-in dogs. Crap-riddled backyards. Closets full of secrets; taboo, sexual, and completely misunderstood.

The dog should’ve clued me in. Any chance he got he would try to run as far away from our house as possible. He was not athletic or properly treated; he was a symbol of everything our family could not speak of. The indirect receiver of all our antagonistic indulgences. He would bark down in the yard. Endlessly. Crying for escape, no doubt. My father took my plastic Hot Wheels racing tracks and slapped them against the side of the house screaming, “Shut up!” in a way only a 5-year-old adult could sound. Terrifying. Awkward. Tyson, the dog, never shut up. Never. I see now why. Those plastic Hot Wheels tracks came to be scarred with thousands of bite marks, Tyson’s only method aside from crying out to request freedom from this place, or at least make it evident that he requested it.

Maybe that’s what I’ve become. I’ve become the mistreated dog we once owned. Needy of wandering, afraid of home. Crying out in silent rage when trapped in the bowels of my studio apartment.

But whatever became of Tyson? I don’t know. Perhaps he died. He was old. I’m sure he’s dead now, but hopefully he was granted better ownership first. Who knows. The difference between Tyson and I, I suppose, is that I own a car, and he did not.