Sounds outside my window
are cars driving by with their windows down and their music loud and more and more i feel like these are pills of multicolored, multi aural selfinclusive magic
soundbites containing one brief breath of a life as it soars through the night and away from you and dry, slippery fingers.
each car and its split second soundbyte screams another message another note about something and then is lost like the slow words of someone you love breaking up with you in a park. each time they speak it is so slow, the crystalline formation of the words, and then when you finally have one, and think to grasp it long enough you might examine it, already, like a snowflake, the shape is gone and warped, the meaning melting and lost in the stifling air.
a car.
is full of people.
a cluster of layered limbs and woven laughs all crackling and vibrating with their hair flying in the torrents of wind for this car cannot afford air conditioning and its music is tinny and high in impoverished speakers.
nobody in it is old enough to regret.
and they slide through like holding hands on the last day of school before summer, sweaty fingers interlocked so tight and promises whispered back and forth about never letting it go, and always being this close and never feeling anything like this and tumbling, and pulling and skin slipping off skin until it pulls away into the night.
another.
with just two people in the front.
quiet.
and one passenger asleep in the back. no music and no words just a long day full of exhaustion and emotional assault, wounds still stinging in the open air. perhaps the person stretched across the back seat is not even really asleep but in that half prone position of pretending to be so that he can avoid speaking at a time when words would just be too trivial for the events of the day.
and another.
with one person.
music as loud as she can get it. all windows down and thumping her rings and fingers against the roof like a military parade as if to say fuck you night i am small but i can still push you back with these headlights and this screaming sound i make in my throat somewhere behind my ears without even opening my mouth.
they slide.
like beads down a necklace to the next town and the next and the next.
and i lose you all and wish i could ride with you wherever you are going. or never stop.
and just go until we run out of road.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
cherries
they start out in the neon pyramid of the grocery.
pillars of glossy, spherical, ruby red youth and resilience.
We will live forever, their brilliant, multifaceted hues suggest. We are not merely flesh which will, someday, disintegrate and return our stone hearts to the earth, we are some gorgeous jewels, representations of all that is carpe diem, all that is yours for the taking, so much so that we are in fact yours for the taking, our sweet blood, our smooth skin, our delicious, nubile bodies are all for your enjoyment, for the simple action of bagging and paying, you can take us-take us-take us-home.
who could resist them.
a vermillion chorus under translucent plastic, we succumb, and we pay and they come oh they come oh they come.
Under the bright sunshine of the lunching sun they come
under the pitiless gaze of the rearview mirror they come
like quicksilver they come
on the beach in the sand on a blanket green like a meadow they come
in my hand
in my mouth
on my face they come
and we spit their seeds at the horizon and wonder if their souls will swim to england.
who loves you?
we ask.
and in reply
they come.
and later-
when they are older-
we shelve them in cold regret.
there was too much.
our mouths sour and sore from the tearing of skins from the bitter tannons of love and passion which cling in our teeth and stain our lips the unforgiving crimson of a criminal.
we put them there and forget.
we work the week.
we eat the heat.
we reheat the sun and spoon it -bored- into our mouths in front of the shouting moon.
And the bag grows heavy,
and swollen with rot.
'til that day, we are possessed with some notion that our lives need cleansing, and we reach as far back as we have guts for, and somewhere in the slippery, cold depths, our fingers touch a memory. There have been so many other days at the beach since you came to us, and there have been so many pits buried in the sand and left to do what pits do.
And in our fist, your sagging weight is a reminder of something so sweet going so rotten, we dare not even to puncture our engorged remains and sniff at the odor of your decay. our decay.
with a sense of resignment we hurl you into the bottom of the white trash bag. a newspaper curls around you, and you seep gently, softly into its vapid, delicate layers, slowly erasing every word.
pillars of glossy, spherical, ruby red youth and resilience.
We will live forever, their brilliant, multifaceted hues suggest. We are not merely flesh which will, someday, disintegrate and return our stone hearts to the earth, we are some gorgeous jewels, representations of all that is carpe diem, all that is yours for the taking, so much so that we are in fact yours for the taking, our sweet blood, our smooth skin, our delicious, nubile bodies are all for your enjoyment, for the simple action of bagging and paying, you can take us-take us-take us-home.
who could resist them.
a vermillion chorus under translucent plastic, we succumb, and we pay and they come oh they come oh they come.
Under the bright sunshine of the lunching sun they come
under the pitiless gaze of the rearview mirror they come
like quicksilver they come
on the beach in the sand on a blanket green like a meadow they come
in my hand
in my mouth
on my face they come
and we spit their seeds at the horizon and wonder if their souls will swim to england.
who loves you?
we ask.
and in reply
they come.
and later-
when they are older-
we shelve them in cold regret.
there was too much.
our mouths sour and sore from the tearing of skins from the bitter tannons of love and passion which cling in our teeth and stain our lips the unforgiving crimson of a criminal.
we put them there and forget.
we work the week.
we eat the heat.
we reheat the sun and spoon it -bored- into our mouths in front of the shouting moon.
And the bag grows heavy,
and swollen with rot.
'til that day, we are possessed with some notion that our lives need cleansing, and we reach as far back as we have guts for, and somewhere in the slippery, cold depths, our fingers touch a memory. There have been so many other days at the beach since you came to us, and there have been so many pits buried in the sand and left to do what pits do.
And in our fist, your sagging weight is a reminder of something so sweet going so rotten, we dare not even to puncture our engorged remains and sniff at the odor of your decay. our decay.
with a sense of resignment we hurl you into the bottom of the white trash bag. a newspaper curls around you, and you seep gently, softly into its vapid, delicate layers, slowly erasing every word.
Monday, May 4, 2009
life in a french press, conclusion: a very good brew
I took some time off from the whole journalling thing for these last couple of months, and even now, I'm not sure that I'm really going to start back up again.
There's a big writerly type project suckering onto my inspiration right now, and I don't think it will be ready to give me back until the end of the summer. At least that's how I see it.
In the interim, however, there are things to talk about. There always are, right?
I got a year older out of the way. Interesting, how one can feel simultaneously so young and so old. I feel a little like something caught in a drain, the water all rushing past me and yet I'm somehow suspended free of the vacuum, neither in the bathtub, or down in the pipes yet. I'm just here, floating, feeling everything, and going nowhere, nowhere at all.
Still.
Even this is a place.
Even the inbetween is a space one can inhabit.
And I claim it.
I call it bed and make it home and spread my marmalade on toast here and spill my laundry on the floor and set aside some time to write. All of this, while the water rushes by, and its source is endless, or seems so at least, and waiting is less waiting as it is seizing the moment, because the water runs out sometime, and then the plummet is fast and irrevocable.
The wedding date is set.
The location is being negotiated. I'm scrounging up the people I can think of who really should be there, because I can't possibly have everyone I want there, or else somebody better start planning this with a pocketbook a few sizes larger than mine.
Still...there will be ocean and cake and music and dancing and love.
And really, what more could anyone ask for?
Spring has leapt out of the shadows like a regal, if uncontrollable, lion and every blade of grass feels the lust in the air. The moon is fattening herself up for a real bout of madness, and even the ground swells a bit when you step on it, like a breast filling with air.
I feel alive, truly, sensually, messily alive.
The last few weeks have been such a blitz of carpe diem.
That's something new england (and a couple of other places) holds in its populus that really defines us. We know the dark, sodden dread of the soul crushing winter. That feeling, in the back of our throats, even in the thickest, hottest, sweetest summer night, that it is only this rich before the lean, haggard months of cold.
This idea of an expiration date on all things joyous and lovely and wild and bursty and exploding with color, makes us a volitile little crew, and we sieze every opportunity to revel in summeriness.
And I must admit that I am really a stickler for revelling.
I lack nothing if I lack indulgence!
Since the mercury tipped, I've been hurling myself in the ocean at a moment's notice, curling up under the stars on blankets and listening to giants play the accordian. I drink sangria from a chipped mug and sniff the tulips in the bank parking lot across from the bakery, admire the sky and the emerald pallor of the grass. I have danced and walked and frolicked on the beach and burned my over-eager skin worse than I have in years, leaving fluffy trails of white, singed skin all over the apartment in the ensuing weeks.
There has been cass love, lucretia love, hugging friends love, firetruck love, gay date love, nihilistic love, book love, writerly love, cake love, music love, drink love, and love seeping out of places I never knew to look for it before.
During a long-overdue brunch date with B yesterday, I wore a long purple skirt, one that swirls in the breeze and no matter what shape I'm in makes me glad I have hips. We sat in a booth and I drizzled ketchup all over my eggs (much to b's disgust) and we kept a running commentary about the people walking by the window.
A moment passed when the waitress with the flower behind her ear whisked our plates away and refilled our glasses for the last time, when B reached across the table and took my hand, and we just sat there. It was short, and it was silent, and the waitress brought the check, and we paid and strolled out onto the cobblestones, but I could feel at ease in that moment at the table.
I could feel the warmth of B's hand, and the comfort with which we can touch each other, the happy contentment of the breakfast tummy, the quiet realization that you have come a long way with a person, and you are so, so glad to be there with them for the remainder of the journey.
There's a big writerly type project suckering onto my inspiration right now, and I don't think it will be ready to give me back until the end of the summer. At least that's how I see it.
In the interim, however, there are things to talk about. There always are, right?
I got a year older out of the way. Interesting, how one can feel simultaneously so young and so old. I feel a little like something caught in a drain, the water all rushing past me and yet I'm somehow suspended free of the vacuum, neither in the bathtub, or down in the pipes yet. I'm just here, floating, feeling everything, and going nowhere, nowhere at all.
Still.
Even this is a place.
Even the inbetween is a space one can inhabit.
And I claim it.
I call it bed and make it home and spread my marmalade on toast here and spill my laundry on the floor and set aside some time to write. All of this, while the water rushes by, and its source is endless, or seems so at least, and waiting is less waiting as it is seizing the moment, because the water runs out sometime, and then the plummet is fast and irrevocable.
The wedding date is set.
The location is being negotiated. I'm scrounging up the people I can think of who really should be there, because I can't possibly have everyone I want there, or else somebody better start planning this with a pocketbook a few sizes larger than mine.
Still...there will be ocean and cake and music and dancing and love.
And really, what more could anyone ask for?
Spring has leapt out of the shadows like a regal, if uncontrollable, lion and every blade of grass feels the lust in the air. The moon is fattening herself up for a real bout of madness, and even the ground swells a bit when you step on it, like a breast filling with air.
I feel alive, truly, sensually, messily alive.
The last few weeks have been such a blitz of carpe diem.
That's something new england (and a couple of other places) holds in its populus that really defines us. We know the dark, sodden dread of the soul crushing winter. That feeling, in the back of our throats, even in the thickest, hottest, sweetest summer night, that it is only this rich before the lean, haggard months of cold.
This idea of an expiration date on all things joyous and lovely and wild and bursty and exploding with color, makes us a volitile little crew, and we sieze every opportunity to revel in summeriness.
And I must admit that I am really a stickler for revelling.
I lack nothing if I lack indulgence!
Since the mercury tipped, I've been hurling myself in the ocean at a moment's notice, curling up under the stars on blankets and listening to giants play the accordian. I drink sangria from a chipped mug and sniff the tulips in the bank parking lot across from the bakery, admire the sky and the emerald pallor of the grass. I have danced and walked and frolicked on the beach and burned my over-eager skin worse than I have in years, leaving fluffy trails of white, singed skin all over the apartment in the ensuing weeks.
There has been cass love, lucretia love, hugging friends love, firetruck love, gay date love, nihilistic love, book love, writerly love, cake love, music love, drink love, and love seeping out of places I never knew to look for it before.
During a long-overdue brunch date with B yesterday, I wore a long purple skirt, one that swirls in the breeze and no matter what shape I'm in makes me glad I have hips. We sat in a booth and I drizzled ketchup all over my eggs (much to b's disgust) and we kept a running commentary about the people walking by the window.
A moment passed when the waitress with the flower behind her ear whisked our plates away and refilled our glasses for the last time, when B reached across the table and took my hand, and we just sat there. It was short, and it was silent, and the waitress brought the check, and we paid and strolled out onto the cobblestones, but I could feel at ease in that moment at the table.
I could feel the warmth of B's hand, and the comfort with which we can touch each other, the happy contentment of the breakfast tummy, the quiet realization that you have come a long way with a person, and you are so, so glad to be there with them for the remainder of the journey.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
in the woods
Here you come.
Terror upon terrors, wretch of my dreams, the unrestful, you come upon me, a grimace rippling the mask of your face as though it were skin. The florid joy you take in your purpose almost radiating off your features. The hunger in you, like a heat, pushing the molecules of air away from your body, and leaving in your wake a fine, black smoke, which hangs like a sheet in the chilled air. Your step does not disturb a leaf, a petal from the most delicate flower. You move with pure, weightless evil, and you can smell me coming, on the wind.
You wait, knowing nothing of the time.
I have never carried something as heavy as my heart, treading day after day, holding the muscular thing in my hands, turning it over, examining the strong flesh, the turgid arteries. It pulses. It pulses. It defies the delicate nature of the hunt and moves still.
For reasons already confirmed, I carry it outside me.
Soundlessly you fly at me, now that I am at my weakest, and I drop my heart and run terrified, looking back intermittently, cursing slippery fingers and my tumbling, stupid heart.
I do not watch when you fall upon it.
I put my knees to the test of keeping up with my struggling breath, and still they buckle, when I hear the first wet ripping sounds as you bury your jaws in my heart and begin rending it completely apart.
Black veins wriggle between your teeth, your lips bejeweled with fat garnets of gore, you turn to my retreating back and leer. I cannot help but feel the invitation, and I look. The most awful sight is the place where my heart once lay on the ground, where I dropped it, now there is only a faint smear of red.
Perhaps I left it there for you on purpose.
Terror upon terrors, wretch of my dreams, the unrestful, you come upon me, a grimace rippling the mask of your face as though it were skin. The florid joy you take in your purpose almost radiating off your features. The hunger in you, like a heat, pushing the molecules of air away from your body, and leaving in your wake a fine, black smoke, which hangs like a sheet in the chilled air. Your step does not disturb a leaf, a petal from the most delicate flower. You move with pure, weightless evil, and you can smell me coming, on the wind.
You wait, knowing nothing of the time.
I have never carried something as heavy as my heart, treading day after day, holding the muscular thing in my hands, turning it over, examining the strong flesh, the turgid arteries. It pulses. It pulses. It defies the delicate nature of the hunt and moves still.
For reasons already confirmed, I carry it outside me.
Soundlessly you fly at me, now that I am at my weakest, and I drop my heart and run terrified, looking back intermittently, cursing slippery fingers and my tumbling, stupid heart.
I do not watch when you fall upon it.
I put my knees to the test of keeping up with my struggling breath, and still they buckle, when I hear the first wet ripping sounds as you bury your jaws in my heart and begin rending it completely apart.
Black veins wriggle between your teeth, your lips bejeweled with fat garnets of gore, you turn to my retreating back and leer. I cannot help but feel the invitation, and I look. The most awful sight is the place where my heart once lay on the ground, where I dropped it, now there is only a faint smear of red.
Perhaps I left it there for you on purpose.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
poem
i saw you walking down the hall
i wondered how you got that tall
did you brush by to touch my skin
all i let go did you take in?
i took a step you stepped away
i gave you room you told me stay
i brought you water, you didn't drink
i thought about what i should think
i got so thrilled i locked the door
you were the monster i looked for
i got a knife, you held my hand
i couldn't look, i turned and ran
you didn't chase me, i fell down
you left me still upon the ground
when i returned you closed your eyes
i can't say i was so surprised
you told me not to speak a word
you kissed away all my concerns
and now i wonder where you've gone
i never learned to sing your song.
i wondered how you got that tall
did you brush by to touch my skin
all i let go did you take in?
i took a step you stepped away
i gave you room you told me stay
i brought you water, you didn't drink
i thought about what i should think
i got so thrilled i locked the door
you were the monster i looked for
i got a knife, you held my hand
i couldn't look, i turned and ran
you didn't chase me, i fell down
you left me still upon the ground
when i returned you closed your eyes
i can't say i was so surprised
you told me not to speak a word
you kissed away all my concerns
and now i wonder where you've gone
i never learned to sing your song.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Devotee of Foot.
Give it up.
Give up the idea that you were special, or important or noticeable.
Give up the notion that the world is ahead of the next thicket, that there is only one more hurdle, that it is really just a matter of time before you are discovered.
Give away the hope for a fresh start, a new beginning, stuff it in the salvos bin and tell the bell ringer his t-shirt says camp wood and it's pouring rain and who does he think he is expecting generosity from in a recession anyhow?
Give up trying and erasing and practicing and editing and rethinking and spell check and doubling back and posture and sucking in your gut and writing a budget and improving your stroke, meeting someone new, apologizing, being forgiven, scratching an itch give it up give it up give it all up.
In The Awakening, by Kate Chopin, which was originally titled A Solitary Soul, the main character, Edna Pontellier, is a lady of wealth and privilege. She falls in love with a younger man during a summer she, her husband, and her two young sons spend on Grand Isle. He goes away to forget her and the risk of ruin.
When she and her family return to their lavish home in new orleans, she slowly dispatches with all her proper wifely duties. Her husband goes away and business, and in his absence, she take up with another younger suitor, sends her children away to country for a visit, so she can move out of her house, and slowly withdraws further from her societal requirements.
At the end of the story, her summer lover returns, only to leave her before they can culminate their affection with a note that says simply, "good by i love you... because i love you good by."
She returns to Grand Isle, and drowns herself.
This book must have been patial inspiration for Less Than Zero. The thematic similarities are astonishing. Characters basing the weight of their purposes in life by their possessions, by their entertainments; whims creating deeper impacts than any clear decisive processes; people driven by their desires and follies; selfishness beyond comprehension; actions begetting actions and hurtling headlong into one's doom while the maw is propped open with pride; the greatest act of narcisissm of all: suicide.
On my side, I wear the words 'disappear here' forever burned into my skin.
Spring is a time of rebirth. It is a time for awakening. But these are dark days, and what do we awaken, when the earth is uncovered and the sleeping green allowed to fertilize and grow?
I wonder if it is not a better idea to burrow deeper, and hold onto something simple. The action of standing still, while wind may scream away your breath, rain pummel your eyelids, ground drift away like sand.
What if we need to sleep standing up?
Give up the idea that you were special, or important or noticeable.
Give up the notion that the world is ahead of the next thicket, that there is only one more hurdle, that it is really just a matter of time before you are discovered.
Give away the hope for a fresh start, a new beginning, stuff it in the salvos bin and tell the bell ringer his t-shirt says camp wood and it's pouring rain and who does he think he is expecting generosity from in a recession anyhow?
Give up trying and erasing and practicing and editing and rethinking and spell check and doubling back and posture and sucking in your gut and writing a budget and improving your stroke, meeting someone new, apologizing, being forgiven, scratching an itch give it up give it up give it all up.
In The Awakening, by Kate Chopin, which was originally titled A Solitary Soul, the main character, Edna Pontellier, is a lady of wealth and privilege. She falls in love with a younger man during a summer she, her husband, and her two young sons spend on Grand Isle. He goes away to forget her and the risk of ruin.
When she and her family return to their lavish home in new orleans, she slowly dispatches with all her proper wifely duties. Her husband goes away and business, and in his absence, she take up with another younger suitor, sends her children away to country for a visit, so she can move out of her house, and slowly withdraws further from her societal requirements.
At the end of the story, her summer lover returns, only to leave her before they can culminate their affection with a note that says simply, "good by i love you... because i love you good by."
She returns to Grand Isle, and drowns herself.
This book must have been patial inspiration for Less Than Zero. The thematic similarities are astonishing. Characters basing the weight of their purposes in life by their possessions, by their entertainments; whims creating deeper impacts than any clear decisive processes; people driven by their desires and follies; selfishness beyond comprehension; actions begetting actions and hurtling headlong into one's doom while the maw is propped open with pride; the greatest act of narcisissm of all: suicide.
On my side, I wear the words 'disappear here' forever burned into my skin.
Spring is a time of rebirth. It is a time for awakening. But these are dark days, and what do we awaken, when the earth is uncovered and the sleeping green allowed to fertilize and grow?
I wonder if it is not a better idea to burrow deeper, and hold onto something simple. The action of standing still, while wind may scream away your breath, rain pummel your eyelids, ground drift away like sand.
What if we need to sleep standing up?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A Blunt Instrument
Sometimes the feeling that I am standing stock still in the middle of an eight lane highway is overwhelming.
I remember in high school being simultaneously incarcerated in my routine and my fears of the unknown. I couldn't leave, I couldn't budge. I didn't feel like I ever effected any kind of change, and the seasons moved, the earth turned, the plants and my nails and my hair grew and I could keep time that way, but otherwise, the world marked its days with blood and guts and screams and fires and paint and songs and running and action action action!
I remember this feeling, when I hit nineteen or so, that finally the blocks were gone, and I was moving, really moving, leaving that gorgeous, billowing cloud of dust behind me, and making tracks. I felt like I was in the cars, driving the cars, and not only that, but I had a fucking destination, and after that, I had another place to go, and I always had something to do, and I almost had to rush, but there was a minute or so, here and there, where I could pause, take a breath, taste the air, and remind myself why I was burning burning burning through all the time in the world. Around then, I threw out every watch I owned.
I still don't carry one. My cell phone is a clock, and I hate it.
It feels as though my life has come to a screeching halt.
I recede.
I pull back.
I am sequestered in this immobile state where there is nothing else to do but watch the clock, and shuffle around, attempting to make progress. I feel so ineffectual sometimes, I want to destroy everything around me just to remind myself that what I do actually matters.
In floods the nihilism. I put the informers on the bedside table, and somewhere in the sweat-soaked night, I thumb through and let my own personal deity (Mr. B.E.E.) sing a song of succumbing.
Give up.
Put away your passion.
Take up the weapons of your immaterial life.
Realize your insignificance and take another
blood racing tablet.
Know this,
there is nothing in this life you will ever do
with more impact
than peeling an orange.
So soak your eyes in tears
cut your fingers to ribbons
take a bottle of what have you
and amp up your cause
so at least when you dig your fingernails
under the skin
you can pretend you're really hurting it.
When I rise, the sun is different. The street slaps back the soles of my shoes, and I feel the wriggling underneath the concrete. But is it just the plants growing? My nails? My hair?
The days melting like icicles, drip drip dripping away, and crashing to the ground another week. It lies in front of me, splintered on the sidewalk, reflecting light and refracting time. The sun passes behind a cloud and all the beauty of the crystalline ice is gone. Its just dirty fragments hurled against the ground.
I choke on it a little, but I eat the orange.
I remember in high school being simultaneously incarcerated in my routine and my fears of the unknown. I couldn't leave, I couldn't budge. I didn't feel like I ever effected any kind of change, and the seasons moved, the earth turned, the plants and my nails and my hair grew and I could keep time that way, but otherwise, the world marked its days with blood and guts and screams and fires and paint and songs and running and action action action!
I remember this feeling, when I hit nineteen or so, that finally the blocks were gone, and I was moving, really moving, leaving that gorgeous, billowing cloud of dust behind me, and making tracks. I felt like I was in the cars, driving the cars, and not only that, but I had a fucking destination, and after that, I had another place to go, and I always had something to do, and I almost had to rush, but there was a minute or so, here and there, where I could pause, take a breath, taste the air, and remind myself why I was burning burning burning through all the time in the world. Around then, I threw out every watch I owned.
I still don't carry one. My cell phone is a clock, and I hate it.
It feels as though my life has come to a screeching halt.
I recede.
I pull back.
I am sequestered in this immobile state where there is nothing else to do but watch the clock, and shuffle around, attempting to make progress. I feel so ineffectual sometimes, I want to destroy everything around me just to remind myself that what I do actually matters.
In floods the nihilism. I put the informers on the bedside table, and somewhere in the sweat-soaked night, I thumb through and let my own personal deity (Mr. B.E.E.) sing a song of succumbing.
Give up.
Put away your passion.
Take up the weapons of your immaterial life.
Realize your insignificance and take another
blood racing tablet.
Know this,
there is nothing in this life you will ever do
with more impact
than peeling an orange.
So soak your eyes in tears
cut your fingers to ribbons
take a bottle of what have you
and amp up your cause
so at least when you dig your fingernails
under the skin
you can pretend you're really hurting it.
When I rise, the sun is different. The street slaps back the soles of my shoes, and I feel the wriggling underneath the concrete. But is it just the plants growing? My nails? My hair?
The days melting like icicles, drip drip dripping away, and crashing to the ground another week. It lies in front of me, splintered on the sidewalk, reflecting light and refracting time. The sun passes behind a cloud and all the beauty of the crystalline ice is gone. Its just dirty fragments hurled against the ground.
I choke on it a little, but I eat the orange.
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