This evening, while Justin and Erin were having a fierce argument over computer time (Erin had imposed on Justin's WOW routine) and I was attempting to discuss tomorrow's schedule with Matt's mother/Josie's grandmother/our babysitter and while "For Keeps" (that 1987 stereoyped romance story about a high school couple who get pregnant and truly learn what love is - Yep, Molly's in it) and while I was trying to smoke another cigarette and eager for this day to end or at least for everybody else to go to bed, I discovered a happy little notification in my inbox. My poem "Resurgere, Phinus!" will be included in the new literary journal of Otis College of Art and Design in Los Angeles. The journal is called The Strip.

Otis has high ranks in the fashion and graphic design departments and it has a kick-ass homepage, so you know the book will look cool (at least I hope that there isn't a notorious rift between creative departments - the same type rift that you may see at other, eh-hum, state universities). I'm not sure how the Writing Program ranks, and I know that the journal is new - BUT an Indiana girl sent a little poem about her grandpa all the way to California and those people out there actually liked it! That says something for human connections . . . And, perhaps, that says something of my capabilities when I have inspiration (and energy) behind me . . . Must be careful here . . . Can't be too proud . . . Will fall into evil spiral downfall . . . Must keep writing . . . Must keep higher purpose . . . type, type, type . . . The light . . . must go into the light . . . (Poltergeist flashback, sorry)

Last night, I was lucky enough to get to join the few who previewed the HBO Documentary Baghdad Hospital: In the Red Zone before it premieres tonight on HBO. Omer (the doctor filming and telling his story through a hand-held DVR) has found his way to Ball State's Telecommunication program and they are quite proud to have him (rightly so). I actually talked Matt into going with me. We joined the university president, the dean, department chairs, professors, and heads from BSU's marketing and communications department. Albeit there were a few approachable people - even a few students that I've claimed as friends. Still, the set-up for the showing (the "reception") was a bit awkward if not offensive given the subject matter of the movie. The relentless plugs for the university were a bit depressing. There is definitely something morally wrong about standing around waiting for a movie such as this with wine glass in hand, hors d'oeuvres floating by, in suit and tie or heels and lipstick, while the canal drifts along (oh wait, they've drained it for repairs - so bulldozers and cranes slept just outside the glorious windows of the prestine Indiana Historical Society, which, I must say, is one kick-ass building). Our city hummed with peace. I want to call the whole thing "ego-stroking" on the part of many (in fact, I could name a few for whom I could guarantee that it was just that), but . . . surely, intentions weren't this dark for everyone (I hope).

Matt and I raced out of there to smoke when the film was over - both of us near tears and stressed out by the haughty surroundings, both of us dying to talk to each other about what the other was feeling. I know he had dropped a tear or two. I certainly did. We rambled on to each other with "hows" and "whys" until we made it to the McDonald's in Mt. Comfort (and then we felt guilty about our corporate dependence and laziness).

The film was serious and real. The places felt familiar. The most moving scenes included a close-up shot of a young child injured in a bombing having a tube shoved into his lung as the narrator mentioned "no anesthetic." He was a very strong little boy. Another moving scene was in an ambulance rushing several men and a woman to the hospital after another bombing in the street. The woman shouts "Where is Sadam Hussein? We did not have this when we had Sadam Hussein!" The man sitting beside her kept placing his hand over her mouth to quiet her. Matt and I discussed whether it was male-dominance thing (women should not be heard!) or simply the man trying to protect her (should she be seen on film and be tagged to be killed). There was a scene in which several of the Er workers were together talking about being filmed. One says, "Oh you're making a film and it will be shown in Britain? So, we'll never see it then?" We learned that American troops are respected and utilized as a much needed "neutral force" - which makes the recent urge to remove troops from the Middle-East a trickier issue than we may have thought. We learned that there's a huge shortage of blood in the ER. Omer had been arrested during filming; authorities had thought he was an insurgent, but he was able to speak with American troops in English about being a journalist and then was released. He was only able to find one doctor/surgeon who allowed him to follow him around. Most people did not want themselves on film because they felt it would get them tagged to be killed. A year after his filming, Omer's father and brother were both killed. He mentioned that his father was killed in June 2007, and it made me consider what I was doing in June 2007 - I was messing around with my above-ground pool in the backyard and celebrating my daughter's 13th birthday with an Hawaiian Luau.

It was only after he knew that his family was safe that he came out with his identity in creating the film. The questions that the audience had for him were, sadly, only a few. Maybe it's because we all felt like asses for enjoying the beef sticks and horseradish so much earlier in the hour. There was an Iraqi girl that got up to confess her profound respect and love for Omer and what he had done in creating this film. Professors asked questions regarding politics - "What do you think leaders should be doing?" Omer told the audience that he felt that all politicians are liars. He had genuine intentions in revealing what civilians are dealing with on a daily basis. Here is where he wants the help sent - not to line the pockets and boost the campaigns of the politicians. A good idea. I wanted to get up and ask him how he's adjusting to the change - the switch from such chaos and danger, daily risks in just walking out the door, to a peaceful campus in Muncie, where young Americans walk around complaining about things like cell phone minutes and too much assigned reading.

The movie reminded me of the trips to Third World countries that my friends Shaun, A German Baptist who I met at Marian College, has been making as an osteopathic nurse. It made me want to book a seat on the next bus - not to film a movie, but to be there to help. It made me ashamed that I hadn't done so yet. The thought of going to gather a story made me feel guilty too - like I'd be questioning my intentions. Pride is a tricky, invasive creature. It made me feel ashamed and spoiled, and I think of that as a good thing. I wish that we would've stayed a little longer - just long enough perhaps to shake Omer's hand. He seemed very humble and real. I admired that incredibly. I wish that I could show the movie to my children. I wish that, sometime in my lifetime, I will be able to tell a story as moving and revelational as his story was - and my intentions would be genuine. I hope that there weren't too many of the others who left the Historical Society to find classy downtown bars and order pricey foreign beers - of course, what's worse? Pricey foreign beer or McD's new and surprisingly cheap, sweet tea?

At least by being in academia (and I still feel like a fish out of water after all of these years) I get exposed to things such as this. In the working class (which I know all too well and of which I am still very much a part of - and will always be a part of - be it in spirit or full self), it's sink or swim. Who has time to worry about the rest of the world when you're barely getting by yourself? I really don't want to waste any opportunities. I don't want to waste away either. Why does this make me ask myself if I'm being selfish?

Here's a link to a photo essay that I submitted (late last night) to JPGMAG.COM (which is a very cool site, although I fear that it's wanting to become a dating service). There are many serious photographers there - mostly because they put out a very serious (kick-ass) magazine. It's a brilliant idea actually . . . I wonder if such a concept could be applied to writing . . . hmmmm . . . where are they getting their money?

Anway, enjoy the story and the images. I am really not sure what constitutes a good photo essay . . . I'm guessing here. Has someone written a book on it? Mine is a little cheesy maybe. I have some plans to do a few more of these - and to maybe get a little more creative in my "essays" . . . Like maybe I'll get into that old house that GrandDad's been cleaning out - the house that hadn't been touch since 1982 (well, it hadn't been touched by human hands - squirrels had homied up in it; we found acorn shells in nearly all of the drawers). It was the house that Old Smith's (no relation) parents had died in and he couldn't bring himself to go back in to go through their stuff, so it all just kinda' sat there - food in the cabinets, medicine behind the mirror, jewelry in jewelry boxes, letters and photos in old trunks . . . An antique hoarder's wet dream. Now Mr. Smith is old and dying, with no line behind him . . . I'll start the essay "Dear Mr. Smith" . . .

Now, the place for the photo essay I submitted - Falls of Rough, KY - was another one of those eerie places. I wish I had had a better camera.

I don't know why I'm watching the end of Urban Cowboy, but I am. I'll blame it on nostalgia and, honestly, I forget what happens. I think Sissy is sexier than Bud. There's a part of me that find Travolta's little chin dimple revolting - as much as I love him. Grease changed my life. Seriously. :)~ Micky Gilley has an official web site: www.gilleys.com . . . if you're curious. It says they have a newsletter. Has line dancing really died?

Today, I reworked my little office area at the top of the stairs. I couldn't bring myself to finish going through all of my papers and stories, but I did manage to re-acquire a desk. Well, actually it's a folding table. But I spread a sheet over it to hide some of it's ugliness and it's great for hiding all of my boxes of shit.

Non-fiction . . . I'm thinking hard about focusing on it more in my MFA - but I'm unsure if I even have enough writing to cover an application. I've got ALOT for my Literary Journalism story. Shaping the thing into beginning, middle, and end is going to be tricky. Actually, beginnings and middles are easy for me - it's endings that I suck at.

That is all I have for a lazy Sunday. My creativity is a little stumped.

The aesthetic statement thing was kind of lame . . . I had spent way too much time rummaging through my old files. I have also spent way too much time this morning trying to see if I could get more people (ANYBODY!) to look at this stupid blog . . . I gave up. I guess it will remain a personal endeavor. So, self, here's a very cool little artistic, digital video that I found when I Stumbled upon Beta Current. I will try to embed it (cross your fingers).

I'm smalltown. I remember writing in my journal nearly every day on my dad's front porch swing the summer just before I turned 15. I scribbled out recants of my first kiss, biographies of my best friends, my questions of religion (specifically my mother's religion) and my presumed reasons for being where I was on a world that had made such a mysterious arrival. My dad wore a cowboy hat and had a can of Stroh's in his hand when he wasn't working. My stepmom manned the counter at T& R Liquor. They didn't "understand" me. It was the first and only summer I'd lived under my dad's roof - he upheld one too many rules. It was the summer that I met my first true love; he came rolling by the front porch on a bike - no hands! - covered in freckles and with no future aspirations. I threw the pen aside and redevoted myself to the role of smalltown girlfriend, i.e. quiet but giggly and French-kisser extraordinaire. The next summer, I was pregnant.

There is healing in storytelling. I am full of stories. I truly believe that if I hadn't been able to transform my life experiences into healing stories through creative writing, I would not be where I am today. I'm still smalltown, but my love of writing kept me in love with college once I got a taste of it.

(another short story . . . because I know that no one really wants to hear about my slow-moving Friday and my upset stomache . . . I am investigating the art of running a literary journal or magazine and I'm taking notes . . . meanwhile, enjoy my dark humor!)


There is This Baby
By Rachel Hartley-Smith

The nurse plops it into my arms, wrapped in blue cotton – as light as a football and not much longer. She has her rubber gloves on, and happy clouds and rainbows are stamped all over her scrubs.

This baby has its eyes wide open and they’re dark. Its skin is crinkly, flaky and too pink. It’s like a hairless baby opossum. Its head is twisting around trying to find its fist and fingers. It already has long fingernails. I think that’s odd.

The nurse pulls up a rolling stool beside me, the same stool that the doctor had used to perch himself between my thighs that morning.

Dr. SomethingMiddleEastern had showed up in the birthing room, with shower caps over his head and loafers, and he was a blur between my legs through all of my pushing and shoving, all of my breathing and screaming and, then, the grand finale. I thought all of my innards had splattered onto the linoleum. He had declared it a boy, then asked me for its name - Dillon I’llFigureOuttheMiddleNameLater. He was there long enough to sew me up (and actually asked once, mid tug of thread and in thick Arab accent, “Does it hurt that bad?”), and then he disappeared, surely he moved on to a female with proper insurance coverage. And I was left to these nurses, these haughty nurses in their bob cuts and white sneakers.

“Are you going to breastfeed, sweetie?” nurse asks me, and she peeks under my sheets to check the soak status of my bed pads.

I can’t help but sneer my lip at the thought of its lips on my nipples. This baby has given me stretch marks, a wider ass, and a distaste for cigarettes. Among other things. It’s been a twisty leech in my gut for the last nine months. The disconnection has been a relief.

And I am not willingly showing my tits to another nurse. The world had seen enough of me when I delivered. I was fully exposed to a room of strangers, fully exposed with a tilted mirror facing me on the opposite wall so I could watch everything on wide screen. There were nurses shuffling in and out the whole time. Massive Star Trek equipment had rolled out of closets that looked innocent enough.

Besides, I’d walked in on women breast-feeding babies in fast-food bathrooms and felt like I’d interrupted some perverted occult ritual. I knew a woman - a legal services lawyer - who breast fed her boy until he was three. He was old enough to ask for it. He’d say, “Mama, gimme’ titty,” and he had his teeth.

“Well, you’ll regret it. It’s perfectly natural,” says nurse as she rolls the stool away from my bed like she’s noticed a herpes on my lip. To her, natural was surely farts in the dark or organic face tighteners.

My breasts swelled at 16 weeks and have been leaking ever since. I’m ready to pitch the bra liners. They make my boobs look clunky. And the stitches are gone in 6 weeks. They say they’ll just dissolve.

How many babies have I seen suckling a plastic nipple and happy? My mother didn’t breastfeed me. My older sister breastfed all three of hers. Now her tits hang past her waistline. Her boyfriend calls them utters.

Besides, I already know the basics of bottle-feeding - it’s just tip and burp, tip and burp. You learn that shit from baby dolls.

Nurse says, “I’ll get you the pills to dry you up. I’ll get little Dillon a bottle. Is Enfamil okay?”

I shrug. She struts out of the room with a tired gaze.

Once she’s gone, the baby starts crying like I’ve pinched it. It opens its mouth and squeezes its eyes shut, wailing. It turns from pink to a gruesome red. It’s pushing off from me with its legs and trying to free itself of the blankets. It’s turning its head towards me, rooting like it has a nuzzle. It’s awkward, but I rock and shush it, rock and shush it. You learn that shit from baby dolls too. But, this little booger is stronger than I thought possible. I rock and shush it, rock and shush it.

I can't remember the last time I was able to read a New York Times article from beginning to end. Some of those stories could really be given a little more than a wimpy inverted pyramid, especially when they're falling under categories that promise to be interesting to some of us, e.g. "Arts and Entertainment." The article on Heath Ledger could've used a little less "blah." Poor, dead guy. He was handsome enough.

Post-Colonialism (Literature) has been dropped. Now, THERE'S some relief. Now, I'm stuck with all of the god damn books . . . Still, I have saved myself from a semester of agony, a semester of pressed time and endless reading and bitching because it's not quiet enough around here for me to read. I talked with my advisor yesterday and he was okay with it. We talked for a while about "direction." I think I was imagining him standing up like some Native Cheif in feathers and pointing to the West (or East - NY is a writer-magnet). He did make me feel better about myself and filled me in on the creative writing networking system. Networking is hard to do from my perspective. And I guess I'm a little lazy. Plus, it was something my parents never taught me (stupid parents). But, I'm still confused and need to get to doing something productive . . . something that makes money too . . .

Yesterday morning, Matt and I got honest about our "resentments." Stupid jobs, bills, clocks, responsibilities . . . He had to miss a day of work because he overslept (being Tardy is apparently worse than taking a sick day). So, I dropped Jo off at Mamaw's and, on a whim, brought him back 2 McGriddles and a Sausage Burrito. Then we went and spent $50 on food (so they wouldn't starve come evening). We managed to cheer each other back up, I think.

Meanwhile, I'm messing around with old poems . . . Here, have one and soak up the leisure . . .


Mr. Swaddy
by Rachel Hartley-Smith


wallpaper hulling
from the corners
like river birch bark

crumpled sheets
and old money
stiff as the mattress springs

a bulldog in a wad
by the door
dreaming it’s human

its master looks spent
sagging shoulders
like the heavy curtains

his bare feet
on the floor
on cold wood like northern piers

his lover smokes
comfortable
in her recompense

pulls the sheet up
to make a sundress
and blows him kisses

the smell of
a hundred
slept-on White Russians

“Boy, you seen your cousin, Ferris, ‘round here lately?” The police officer had approached the short round table while shifting his belt with the wasteline of his dark pants. He spoke low in spite of the juke box – Kenny Rogers and Dolly’s duet seemed to float high by the ceiling fans – and his words came through stern and whizzed right into Denny’s ears.

“Nope. Nope, I have not, officer,” Denny said. It was still early – around eight in the evening. Denny said so loud and clear.

The officer nodded his bald head towards Denny’s young buddy who sat beside him, then he locked a stare on Denny. Denny didn’t even twitch. It was eye versus eye. Something honky-tonk replaced the Islands in the Stream. The officer stuck out his lower lip and shook his head, then he strutted on up to the bar. He slid onto a barstool and smiled at the waitress, a wide smile – all spaced teeth. He shot Denny another suspicious glance, attempted to wave the floating cigarette fog away from his breathing space, then ordered an iced tea, “tall and sweet” just like that waitress.

“Who the hell is Ferris?” Clinton asked Denny, wriggling in his seat a little then taking a suck on his cigarette.

Denny crunched his brow and shook his head slowly. He reached up and scratched behind his ear. “Ferris is my cousin.”

“I got that part. Why the hell is Officer Dumb-n-Bald looking for him?”

“I’m gonna’ tell you something because you’re my friend.” Denny hushed his speech and leaned in across the table.

“Okay, I’m your friend. I’m your friend.”

“Ferris is one mean man, friend. Consider yourself lucky that you don’t know him.”

“Ha! Like some Italian?” Clinton leaned back in his chair, chuckling. He glanced over his shoulder back at the cop. The cop was still flirting with the waitress as she wiped out the glasses with her bar towel. She looked pissed that the guy had found his place in front of the sink. When someone called an order, she walked away from him like he wasn’t talking. Clinton dropped his chair back down and hushed his own voice. “Is he a drug dealer, Den? Is he cooking meth? Because I know some guys who cook meth and they’re plain out fucking nuts.”

“Nope. Nope, he don’t mess with that shit. He don’t need to.” Denny stared at the players around the pool table in the center of the bar room. A cutie was leaning over to shoot a combo. Denny shook his head again. She’d never make it.

“Is he some prison escapee? Because I had a cousin once who, well, he didn’t escape from prison but he jumped parole. And those hogs were on him like flies on shit.”

“Nope. Nope, he ‘aint never been to jail. They ‘aint never caught him.”

“So, what’d he do? Knock over a bank? Beat up some chick?”

“Nope. Well, he might’ve beat up a chick once or twice, but they always came back to him. Women love my cousin. I’ll tell you something, Clinton.”

“Okay. Okay, Den.”

“This ‘aint why they got their eyes out for him, but he tried to hang one his wifes once. I’m not kiddin’. He hung her from the rafters of his barn. He tied her hands behind her back and set her up on a bucket, kicked the bucket and then left her.”

“He killed her?”

“I told you he tried. Ferris’ mama – my great aunt Shelly – happened to find her and save her. She cut her down. That chick blamed herself for it and came whining back to him, begging him to forgive her and take her back.”

“No shit?”

“Nope. That ‘aint no shit.”

“So he’s a psycho?”

Denny tipped his beer can back and finished it. He had another sitting unopened beside it. He cracked it open and took another, fresh cold swig. “I guess you could say that, but he’s family. That’s all I’ll let you get away with.”

“Sure. Sure, Den.” Clinton dropped his eyes.

“If I tell you why Mr. Cob-in-the-Ass is looking for my cousin, you’d better not utter a word of it to nobody, because, friend, if you do, I’ll kick your ass so hard, they’ll be takin’ you to the hospital to have boot my removed, and you might just have Ferris himself on your ass.”

“Sure. Sure, Den.” Clinton smashed his cigarette in the ashtray and put his hands together in a fist in front of him on the table. The cuffs of his work shirt were unbuttoned and hung from his wrists.

Denny flashed his eyes to the side and caught the officer in his peripheral. The man was oblivious to everything around him aside from that cute waitress behind the bar. Denny knew that cute waitresses name was Dora. “Ferris once killed a man.”

Clinton raised his dark fuzzy eyebrows.

“It’s been a few years back. He was up north working on that there Alaskan pipeline.”

“Yeah, I know that pipeline.”

“You ass, you don’t know that pipeline.”

“Well, I’ve heard of it, see? In books.”

“You don’t read books.”

“Magazines, Den. Shit, you know the Times and News magazines they got in doctor’s offices?”

Den sized him up.

“I was just saying . . . I know where you’re talkin’.”

Den continued. “Well, Ferris was up there working on that pipeline and, see, he’s the kind of man who keeps to his own. Most of my family does that way. We do that, see?”

Clinton nodded and started to speak but stopped himself.

“He was up there, living in this inn with a bunch of other men, and they were all workin’ on this pipeline. The inn sat on this river and Ferris had bought himself a boat. He was the only one in the bunch who had a boat, and he’d go out and run a trot line at night and bring home all kinds of fat-ass fish that he’d sell and make good money. See what I’m sayin’?”

“Sure. Sure, Den.”

“Well, one night, it was a full moon, this other guy in the bunch told Ferris he was going to take his boat out.” Denny took another swig. The jukebox had faded into another sappy slow song. The group playing pool had rounded up another set of balls for a break. “Ferris told him, ‘Nope, you won’t be takin’ out my boat.’ And that other man said, “Yes, yes I will be takin’ your boat.’ And Ferris said, “Nope. Nope, you won’t be takin’ my boat.”

Denny continued while Clinton kept close. “Well, Ferris took off to the bar for a little bit and came back to find his boat missin’. He was pissed. See?”

“Sure. Sure, Den.”

“So Ferris, he stole a row boat from the dock and went out looking for his boat. It was cold, cold nights up there and his arms hurt doin’ all that rowin’ upstream and he was pissed, see?”

“Yeah. I see.”

“Well, he found that man in the moonlight on the banks of the river a few miles upstream, taking a piss off the edge of his boat. That man’s ass was shining brighter than the moon. See?”

Clinton nodded and lit up another cigarette.

“Well, when Ferris found him, he came up on him and the man was drunk as shit. See? So Ferris jumped on his boat and let that row boat go. They commenced to fightin’ there on the boat, and it was tossing in the water, see?”

Denny saw Clinton shiver a little.

“The boat drifted away from the banks and into the middle of the river. And Ferris pushed that drunkard off of his boat, leavin’ that man to drown. That man couldn’t swim, see? And he was so drunk that the river took him under. Rivers have those undercurrents.”

“I know. I know that one, Den.”

Denny stopped and stared at Clinton for a second or two. “Ferris let that man drown and then he drove the boat on back to the inn and went to sleep. A few days later, he had to take off into the mountains. Then he found his way all the way down to Mexico.”

Clinton shook his head. “Holy shit, man.”

“It’s been several years ago, I guess.”

“And they ‘aint never found him? They ‘aint gave up? How’d they know he did it?”

“Well, he up and bragged about it to his buddies in the bunch and they ratted on him, see?”

“Sure. Sure, Den.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, Clinton. You’d better watch your mouth.”

“So, where you think he is? He still in Mexico?”

“Nope. Nope, he ‘aint in Mexico. He got himself in trouble down there, too. He shot up a Catholic church, put holes in the front double doors. He was just out drinkin’ and it was a full moon again.”

“Well, who knows then? Eh, Den?”

“I know, friend. And I won’t be sayin’ to no cops. And the number one reason ‘aint because I’m a pussy. Ferris is family. ‘Round here, we don’t rat out family. And, you know ‘round here, friends are like family, and we don’t rat out friends.”

“Hey, I’m no nark, Den. No nark.” Clinton scratched the side of his face.

“Nope, Clinton, my friend, I don’t think ya’ are.”

“I’m not. I’m cool with it. Ferris had to kill that idjit. That chick probably deserved to be hung, too.”

“Well, I aint sayin’ that. I wasn’t there. But, I’m gonna’ tell you something else. You rat to that cop or anyone else and I’ll hang your ass.”

“He’s close, Den? He’s hidin’ out? Close?”

“Damn close. He’s in my basement. Much of the town knows and nobody’s talkin’. Not even that sexy little waitress. She’ll ask me later to take her to him and she’ll tell Ferris everything that cop said. Come tomorrow, Dumb-N-Bald might well be dead. I’m just sayin’, friend. That’s how it works ‘round here.”




(this story was written in honor of Jerry the Farmer) ;)

I know that online Tarot card readings can't count for much, but I've always liked the stupid little cards . . . Each card has a relatable insight, I suppose, if you twist it enough to your own situation, and then there's the cool artwork. Well, I was procrastinating again and looking for something to do aside from reading what has been assigned or playing Sodoku. So I read the "Curious Tarot", a Celtic Cross reading, and what came up was interesting . . . or rather, it was interesting how I was able to fit the meaning to my situation. The revelation was something in regards to my "needing" to enroll in more college, to my search for "discovery," to do or not to do. It shadowed the idea of damage done to a relationship . . . There was the Queen of Wands reversed in the spot of "your role, attitude" . . . "The natural embodiment of passion and sensuality, who will do anything to the be the center of attention. A seducer who calculatingly dons the guise of what others desire. A cocky and domineering person, who pushes anyone or anything aside to get what she wants. One who is vengeful and quick to take offense without good cause." The Tower card was the outcome if I should continue in my present direction. There was more. And, I know, it's corny to put weight into these things. Still, it made me rethink how Matt must be feeling. I know he hates his job and feels like he's not getting much help. Needless to say, I'm rethinking my intentions and my pressing desire to get somewhere besides here. Here, isn't so bad.

Geez, if I don't drop the Post-Colonial Lit class, I will die. I can in no way keep up with such massive (hediously boring) reading. The assignment for the weekend was huge. I would have to have read every day for at least three or four hours - maybe more. Then discussion questions would be due tomorrow at 11AM. Let me just paint a picture for you of my reading environment . . .

Yes, Guitar Hero is blasting. There's a face-off between Ashleigh and her military school loverboy. They're playing Danzig's Mother. Matt's running around in WOW again and has been all day and all last night (I seem to recall a time not too long ago when he stated that he was done with it . . . hmmmmmm). Justin and Jenna have been entangled in each other on the couch - constant giggling or shouting or tickling or jumping up and down - occasionally, when they think no one is looking - engaging in deep, passionate soul kisses (as deep and passionate as a fourteen year old and seventeen year old can get). Erin's been on the phone, off the phone. She's filled my ears with the recent soap opera tales of her friend dumping another friend because her boyfriend sent another girl a picture of him in his boxers under the predessor that she send him a picture of her with her shirt off. I know, I know - it's confusing. I can only reply with a stare and creased eyebrows (as you may now have). Then there's Josie - who's been running around screaming, tumbling, sucking on homemade Pink Lemonade popsicles, telling me stories every other given moment, crying and tattling on her sisters, teasing the puppy, wining that she's hungry, banging cups on the table, etc. etc. - all the while, at any given moment, she may state what may already be the obvious: she needs to pee.

And then there's the pup - who has been temporarily placed in his cage - is whining and chewing on the door of his cage. If he's out of the cage, he wants to go outside or he's sniffing around to see what he can chew, or he's chasing his tail around in endless circles. Often he catches his tale and whirls himself around until he falls over - usually bumping into things and people on his way. If he's outside, he wants in. And it's COLD outside today - taking him out and bringing him in calls for immense bitching from whomever the task gets laid upon. You can't just open the door for him - We have to attach him to the chain because he's beat up the fenceline and dug little ditches to crawl under. There have a number days during which we've had to chase him through the neighborhood. We've set up a trolley line from the patio to the back fence by the aboveground pool. On occasion, he'll still pop under the fence with his chain on and get himself stuck. Now, Justin and Matt are arguing about Dante's Inferno and Josie is repetitively pushing the croak button on a noisy little green frog/flashlight. The new song on Guitar Hero is Nirvana's In Bloom.

Meanwhile, I've been sipping on coffee ALL DAY and eating left over chicken-n-noodles. I've been researching low-residency MFA Creative Writing programs. I've found a few that I have got to make myself apply for, but mostly I've just succeeded in making this long list of programs and basic requirements, the length of residencies, etc. This is all that I could do given the chaos around me. I will say as I have said before - hiding upstairs is not a possibility and it doesn't matter much - they would find me or they would think I was pissed and then they would find me. Besides, Matt stole my desk. The Merry-Go-Round runs much smoohter if I'm in the midst of it (I keep telling myself this . . . but what if it's all a lie?). These guys are ALL the wrong ages to be allowing Mother to do extensive reading - and who knows how they'll act when she has to leave for a residency.

I really want to put more time into my other two classes - Literary Journalism and Literary Editing. Where the hell does Post-Colonial Lit fit into my schema? I checked on my assistantship status and my financial aid - I'd still be good. So why talk myself out of it?

Low residency MFAs don't require a foreign language like the PhD program here does. It's what I would have to do. I need to find one, however, that can allow me to start off slowly, until I get myself established in a career. I keep leaning more towards editing and publishing. The residencies required are shorter then I expected, too. Naropa was four weeks in a summer - thought that's how they all would be. But lots of them are just a week long or ten days. Of course, the one that I would love to attend would be University of Alaska - I mentioned to Matt the possibility of me going to Alaska for 12 days in the summer and the jealousy literally poured out of his eyeballs. I tried to pitch it as "establishing connections" for future vacations, but it didn't work. He threw back "So why would YOU get to go to Anchorage for 12 days in the summer while we stay here?" Incredibly sweet of my best friend, eh? Oh well, I have been selfish for a long time, I guess.

So, I'm emailing the prof tomorrow and officially withdrawing from the Lit class. I was concerned with looking like a loser, but I'm not finishing another MA, so why should I put myself through hell this last semester before I have to go and get a job? I could create some cool things in the other two classes instead of letting the Lit class take all of my time. Really, graduate student is a hard set-up for a flailing Super Woman. Graduate student with teenagers, three year old, and a puppy may be suicidal. I've worked through suicidal before. Keep on movin' on - or whatever Joe Dirt said . . .

Damn it.

So I have to change directions in regards to my Literary Journalism story. My decision was turned around this afternoon after a chat with my mother on the phone. Note to self: Mothers are ever influencing the decisions of their children.

Until after Spring Break, I can still smoke just outside the building between classes. I like to stand on the large heating vents not far from the door. While I’m standing in the cold January wind, smoking, I get constantly washed over with a gentle breeze of heat. I can stand there in 20 degree weather and my feet will sweat. I consider this one of my greatest discoveries. After Spring Break, I’ll have to hide in the newly established “smoking area” by the loading docks of the TV station or behind the food court. Myself and my dirty habits really shouldn't be an eye-sore for those decent people living life in a “better” manner and just innocently walking by. Once again, "freedom" is under scrutiny. What IS freedom, really? really?

Earlier, while taking my smoke break, just after my Postcolonial Lit class, I had a sort of epiphany – mostly because two other English majors (although they were likely up for PhDs) who sort of know me, chose to stand in the breezy cold to smoke rather than stand over by me on the warm heating vents. They WERE smoking – a habit I’m sure they’ll abandon before graduation (Listen to MY bias!).

I don’t “fit” well into the English major and I’ve discovered this several times (undergraduate and graduate work) and perhaps it all boils down to imperialism and colonization (just like everything else does) – a good ole’ caste system of sorts, still in place, that has deeply penetrated my psyche. Of course, this is my usual way of reasoning – blame it on my upbringing (if you don’t know this by now . . .). I’ve also blamed a lot on “rich” people (and – wow – habits are hard to break!).

Discussing Postcolonial theory (IF there really is one) was like discussing Post-Modernism . . . It’s a call for an ultimate equality . . . IS this possible? Where will intense individualism take us? Do whole governmental systems collapse? Do whole concepts like “humanities” and “classic” collapse? Of course they do. Does it become “live and let live” or does it become anarchy – survivalism without the morals – after all, no moral is really “wrong” – is it? Why would we ever want to replace dominating concepts with new dominating concepts? Can we live in peace without ANY dominating concepts? Can we really dump survivalistic methods of clustering and grouping, categorization, fear of the unknown? Sorry. Questions are known to poor out of me here – especially when I have kept my mouth shut for the most part in class. Funny thing is that I've discussed all of this and more many many times - I've had Philosophy classes, Theology classes, Psychology classes, Gender courses, Art Theory courses, etc., etc. and I've been aware of the "English" presence . . . perhaps more so than others in the classes (because I knew of a different "language" - of sorts). Thing is - I'm just tired of it. I can bitch all I want, but how do we not "succumb" - even it doesn't feel like much?

So, you see where I started sewing the “English” major into the effects of imperialism? It’s always seemingly hung above me – with its puffy standards, its fat set-up required, its mere ability to read and read the hard stuff, its presumptuous paper writing, its pithy names and “isms” . . . Just the fact that we are staring deep into every piece of text and symbolism possible (gas station receipts? Every poem ever written? tatoos?) could be interpreted as a very pompous and Western thing to do. We tell ourselves that we deserve a more complete answer to the “why?” and if we look hard enough at everything there is to look at, we’ll find it. At least, we'll certainly find the BEST way of existence. That is Western thinking in itself. And here I sit STILL a student at a “University.” I need to chop wood, rest . . . chop wood, rest. ;)

“Language is a virus.” - William S. Burroughs

Last night was a long drive home. The snow was coming down hard and in big, flat flakes that were flying straight at the van in a way that made me dizzy. I had to keep my eyes pasted to the road, but then, at several strips, I couldn't tell the road from the cornfield. Driving into Middletown, I came upon a cluster of deer. I braked - although it didn't do much good - and they had time to scatter. Young deer in fresh snow - They radiated Zen. The sky reminded me of a black pearl, deep gray, incandescent. And Middletown looked dreamy (as always) with its homey bars (neon open signs on) and street lamps. Once I was on the other side of Middletown, the snow stopped and all was free and clear, and it was kinda' disappointing.

I'll take back a little bit of my bitterness regarding my previous post. I got a response from the prof before the day was up. He didn't print out my story and scribble all over it, but he gave me some decent feedback and it was in the midst of his busy day. He concreted my notions of the need for a better ending. I don't think he "got" the title, but that doesn't bother me. I'm not changing it - instead I'm trying to work the idea into the story a little more. And he's right, the afixation of a box of chocolates by the chubby, bitchy wife is cliched.

Still, I need to figure out a way to gain more respect . . . I wonder about the teacher/student thing and if it's always the best thing. I've long been an underdog. It makes me nervous - too nervous. I stumbled through a list of "my favorites" (writers, artists, etc.) in another class, when I know that I know that I know this stuff. Reciting it, however, makes me clam up. What I need is a good instruction booklet titled something like "How to Improve Your Self Confidence in 24 Hours" (haven't I read this before?) or maybe I need that one pill, the one I was prescribed after my divorce. It kept me in a mild state of drunken carelessness. Was it Paxil? I want a quick fix. I am so Generation X.

The fiction prof wrote me back with a short, bulleted e-mail. He gave me quick instructions to have my grade changed by the officials if I felt that I received it unjustifiably (good grief! It was an A-. I was just teasing.). He told me he was having a “busy day!” and would get back with me eventually on the story that I sent him. As brief as his response was, it left me slumped. It left me feeling more disconnected and alone than ever.

It made me think of my undergraduate days, when Atwood was eager to read your e-mails and would send back sharp (and always humorous) responses. He wanted you to send him your work. He made you feel like he lived for it. He would openly tell you if it sucked ass or if it had a few incredible lines. Sometimes, these graduate profs are barely teachers. They’re always careful to serve the “criticism sandwich” – a thin layer of shanty critique served between two layers of thick, bullshit compliment. So what if you suck – The last thing we want to do is make you cry in the classroom (you have paid for this education, after all). You’ll get filled up on the loaf. The saltless critique passes quickly through the system and is, eventually, flushed.

The jazz is missing. No one’s looking back at Ginsberg’s “Howl” or Emily Dickinson’s Post-Modernistic chop and dash. Nobody wants to change the world. Everybody just wants to get published and get money for their over-exerted efforts. I can tell that the students alongside me in the program feel just as lost and void of wanderlust. One wants to write romance. Once wants to write Westerns. One wants to write Sci-Fi. No poets. Not one fucking one.

This is a lesson, I guess. It’s a lesson in the solitude of creative writing. It’s a lesson in how it’s become business rather than pleasure. It pisses me off. It disheartens me. It makes me want to work in the marketing office of some Non-Profit organization and say, “Screw this whole creative writing thing; I’ve got purposeful one-liners to compose!”

What a joke. What a joke. I can’t say that . . . . It’s sewn itself into my soul.

I stayed up until 2AM working on another short story. This one's longer - but under 1500 words. It has spawned from Matt's talks about living in Michigan when he was married to his first wife. I'm still polishing it, but thinking I might send it off before I talk myself out of it. I wrote a first draft of the idea, thinking I might turn it into a novella (I'm dying to write something long and worthwhile), but I pulled a central scene - totally refurbishing it - and kept it short and I actually like what came out of it. The inspiration for the title actually appeared (like a dream) when I was researching how a wild turkey might sound. Google "kee kee run" for the insight. ;) Since, I know few are reading (anybody???), and I don't feel much like ranting about my daily existence this morning, I'll post it here.

The Kee Kee Run
By Rachel Hartley-Smith (01-14-08)


“Sit down. We’ll smoke a cigarette,” Carrie said as she pulled a long skinny Misty from its box. Her eyes were still puffy. “Where were you – the last place you can remember?”


Dan slammed the palm of his hand down on the table, birthing circlets in his cup of fresh Sanka. He wasn’t well practiced in being overdramatic. The large plastic ashtray bore a mountain of butts and bubble gum wads. Dan’s tremor caused a slight avalanche of butts from the mountain’s peak. They rolled down and out onto the table, onto some scattered junk mail, pizza coupons and credit card applications. The bottom of his socks were cold, wet and dirty. He wiggled his toes inside them, scratching his toenails against the thin cotton.


“Just breathe. Just breathe.” Carrie reached out to touch his bare shoulder. Her nightgown was a V-neck T-shirt that exposed her long line of deep cleavage. She was always offering up her bosom to comfort.


Dan pushed her hand away and exhaled. “I fucking told you. I went to bed like I do every night. I don’t remember shit.”


“Okay. Okay.” Carrie seemed to focus on her own breathing. She rubbed the bulbous caps of her knees.


“Don’t treat me like I’m a fucking idiot. I don’t know what I was doing out there!” Dan was still shivering. He ran his hand across his arm and felt goosebumps. He reached over to pull his trench coat from the back of Carrie’s chair. When he couldn’t pull it to him because her ass was on it, he yanked it. She squeaked and lifted. He lifted himself to pull the coat around his pale body. Every joint and pit on him looked slightly bruised and purple. The corners of his mouth were indigo. He sat back down, feeling less exposed, and leaned the chair back on its back legs and glared out the back patio door. Two young wild turkeys were poking around in the morning frost by the far tree near the picket fence. The sun was finally up and making the grass shimmer.


“Maybe you did something like this when you were younger?”


“No. For Christ’s Sake, Carrie,” Dan said, swiping his hand over the top of his head and through his buzzcut.


But he might have. His Mamaw had a story about how she woke up one morning to find little Danny sleeping on the kitchen floor with his ear on the heating vent. This morning, in the chilly dark, Dan had woke to find himself standing in the middle of the gravel road that stretched past their Michigan rental, in his underwear and socks, facing the headlights of the mail-carrier’s Jeep. He had screamed, re-orientated himself quickly in the cold, and ran back into the house to violently shake Carrie awake. The mail-carrier had crept by the house slowly, stopped to fill their box and linger a minute, but, now, was long gone.


“Maybe we don’t need to be so freaked out about it,” Carrie said nodding and then taking a slow drag from her Misty. Her voice was high-pitched and mismatched her body. “You had to be half awake to unlock and open the front door. You had to be in and out of a dream or something. They say sleepwalkers can’t do stuff like opening doors.”


Dan grinded his teeth together, sat his chair back down and slid his coffee over until it was under his nose. The steam wafted into his sinuses.


The Mother Carrie. He was convinced that marrying her straight out of high school had been brilliant – he needed someone – but she, in no way, resembled his dear sweet Mamaw. Dragging Carrie to Michigan with him once he became an AirForce MP had been his first man-of-the-house decision, but, quickly, he had come to know how much she hated the nothingness, the lack of bars and pot and neighbors, the base grocery store, their cheap cable plan, the shitty roads, the endless trees, and the “piney air.”


The traces of morning sun left the backyard and the white walls of the kitchen turned a darker gray.


“I’ll tell you what it fucking is. Don’t you think it’s strange that I do this the night after I see that thing at the base?” Dan nodded slowly to himself. His memory flashed to the lights in the sky – soft blue lights in triangle patterns that seemed to pulse rather than blink – the hum in his ears, the clear white orb that appeared to play in front of him on the runway, how he’d wet his pants a little, how when he turned to the base tower to see if anyone else had been watching, the base tower had been empty. The base tower was never empty. Then it was all gone and the black sky was left, starless. He had looked up to see the stiff silhouettes of two officers in the tower, going about their business. He had sat in the front seat of his truck in wet pants, clinging to his automatic with his beret pulled down over his eyes, until the CB squawked a call for his coordinates.

He squeezed his eyes shut and reached for his pack of Marlboro reds.

“Oh, geez,” Carrie sighed and pushed herself away from the table. She rubbed her bumpy elbows. She looked nervously around the tiny kitchen, over to the stack of dirty dishes.


Dan exhaled again then lit his cigarette with his Zippo. He snapped the lighter shut, sent it spinning across the table, but then spoke more softly, trying to sound reasonable. “Don’t you think that’s strange? You think I’m fucking crazy?” He let the cigarette hang at one dark corner of his mouth. He lifted his eyebrows and widened his sunken eyes. Two new pimples shined bright on his chin.

“Oh, geez,” Carrie sighed again and started biting at the stubby nail on her thumb.


“I told you the story.” Dan lowered his eyebrows and attempted to look through her eyes and into her soul.


“I know. I know. And you’re right. It shook you up pretty bad. It was all just a bad dream.” Carrie blinked at him and stood up from the table, wandering over to the sink. She lifted a pan and dumped out stagnant water.


Dan stewed a minute, then screamed at her back, “It wasn’t a fucking dream!” He shoved his coffee out of the way and the cup sailed into the patio door and landed in pieces. The door reverberated in a long quiver. The coffee cup’s handle teeter-tottered on the floor. The coffee looked clear on the glass but left sticky streaks. He still drank his Sanka with lots of sugar.


“Son of bitch, Dan!” Carrie slammed down the dirty pan and more liquid splattered. She didn’t run over to clean his mess. She started sopping up her own with the wet dishrag.


Dan dropped his head on the table and started bawling. His body heaved and dropped. His nose ran. He pushed his bare knees together. He held his cigarette above his head, and a line of smoke lifted from it like a thought cloud.

“Carrie, Carrie, Carrie,” he cried.


Carrie stayed where she was. Her ears had become bright red.


“Hold me. Just hold me.” He sobbed and sniffled, pulling his arms tighter around his head, squirming in his oversized coat, still conscious of his lit cigarette. “You don’t understand. It was fucking real. And I think they . . . took me somewhere. I was MIA for twenty minutes, but it could’ve been days. You’ve seen those shows. I wanted the clinic to check me out, but . . .” His voice was muffled but clear enough.


“You’re such a fucking baby,” she mumbled, throwing the dishrag onto the counter then stomping out of the kitchen.


Dan heard her heavy feet go down the hallway, rattling the pictures on the wall, and then the bedroom door slammed. He heard the TV click on with faint, uproarious applause. Good morning, Jerry Springer. He imagined Carrie wrapping herself in the bedspread with a box of chocolates, shoving the largest dark piece into her mouth like a fix, then picking up the phone to call her mother. He thought he heard a dial tone.


Dan stopped sobbing for lack of an audience. He sucked the spit off of his lip. He felt his head growing heavier against the table. The veins on his forehead, at the pressure point where skin met surface, began to throb.


Outside, the wild turkeys gobbled and cutted and yelped as they took flight up and over the shabby back patio.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Michigan, relationships, sleepwalking, UFOs, wild turkeys

My goals for the day: submit something to somewhere AND finish my readings AND get caught up on the laundry. Matt covered the laundry and I've put off my reading (again) until the morning. But, I did find a site (that brags about it's female writers) wanting flash fiction under 150 words on the theme "Scarecrows." Not asking for much, were they?


Here's what I sent. I came up with it on the spur. Feedback would be way cool, although it's too late to recall what's been sent to the U.K. Still, I think it has some potential and it's nice to know that I can muster something when assigned. It could use a better title, I think . . . couldn't it?


Scarecrow
By Rachel Hartley-Smith (01-13-08)

It’s a nick on Dad’s horizon line. Get closer and you’ll see there’s a green John Deer cap turned sideways and a jock strap, thanks to me. It’s in a faded flannel shirt and has shirt-knots for hands. It’s wearing Bub’s favorite pair of blue jeans; hay’s poking out the holes in the knees. It’s stuffed and hung to save the sunflowers and the cobs, but it won’t do much to save them really.

“Why does it have to be man?” Little Shelly looks up from kicking at a clump of dirt and asks me.

Its head won’t stay up. I stop adjusting its stuffing long enough to shrug. “Dad says the garden matters as much as the soybeans. Besides, how scary would a girl be?”

Shelly nods back at me. I squint to see her frown, but the sun is setting and it’s blinding.

(word count: 146)

“Sitzfleisch . . . a German word signifying the ability to put one’s ass down on a chair and work for many hours of uninterrupted work at a time.” P. 56 of Michael Korda’s Another Life: A Memoir of Other People (2000).

“Uninterrupted” work? I don’t believe I am familiar with the concept. I read the first one hundred pages of Korda’s book while sitting on the couch in the middle of my living room (like an idiot) and interruptions were as constant as the drone of the television – the ratta-tatta of my son shooting zombie people on Resident Evil with his Chicago Typewriter.

Labels: Michael Korda, mothers, parenting, work, writing

“You have separation anxiety. But it’s kinda’ twisted. At least, that’s what I see,” he said as we drove away from Kentucky Fried Chicken, having just spent almost fifty dollars on Original Recipe, “popcorn” chicken, and little “large” Styrofoam containers of mashed potatoes, shitty mac n’ cheese, and baked beans.

I didn’t feel like cooking supper. I was whining again, missing my home and family. Christmas was coming.

“You got out of that town alive and you’ve moved upwards. You’ve had to watch everybody back there just kinda’ sink or fall into some kind of demise. You have this big guilt monkey on your back.”

I sigh. Guilt monkeys get lighter over time, I guess, and, eventually, they turn into mere, unsightly moles. You can have them removed later (when you have the money) and then you’re left with only a faint scar. This isn’t necessarily a good thing. I know what separation anxiety is.

“Hey, turd, I’m trying to read,” says me as Erin, Miss Robust Thirteen, has pulled up YouTube on my laptop and started blasting “Sorry” by BuckCherry. I’ve heard better. I’ve heard similar. Ashleigh, soon to be fifteen, makes her presence known in the living room, sporting her imaginary microphone and banging her head, tossing her short pig-tails, and keeping one hand on her heart. Ori Tiberius, the dog, gives her the curious puppy head cock. Once she’s gained enough side glances and my smile, Ash giggles and retreats to the kitchen, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. Her giggle is where a little shy one still holds on. Most days, I hope that she’ll let it hold on forever. Other days, I think the giggle weakens her to “girly” and I might bite her head off for it.

I have this conventional ideal that all stories, novels, whathaveyou should be compact and have a clear roll-line to a central scene. Let’s blame it on writing workshops and the books that I’ve read. So, then, naturally, I’ve only timidly poked at the idea of writing a “memoir.” I’ve poked at it, stabbed it enough to draw blood, and then I’ve backed away, fearful, knowing that a memoir born of my life experiences would be so fucking complicated that it would be barely be worth it. But then, I guess it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to write the damn thing for myself . . . Meanwhile, this whole blogging thing works.

Here’s where the writing starts. I’m faced with a blank virtual page while “Higgly Town Heroes” are bopping across the television screen, while my three year old is coming up to me in regular spurts with complaints and jokes, while my husband is running around on virtual grass among virtual eagles in the land of WOW. I should be reading my homework assignments.

One of my classes, Literary Journalism, has required me to read a million essays by journalists and writers regarding “truth” and “ethics.” I don’t think that I’m the kind of person to not offer up my cell phone or rental car when someone needs it. I would altar the story. I would altar the story because I’ve been on the other side of those stories before. I’ve been among the misfortunate. Now, I’m comfortable.

We’re stressing about the $600 + that it’s going to cost to repair the brakes on the Nissan, but we can cover it (for once) thanks to another stupid student loan taken out for the new Spring semester. All morning, I’ve been considering the consequences of placing myself in a PhD program. I’ve been wondering if I can pick French back up well enough to interpret a reading for the foreign language competency requirement. I received a Master of Arts diploma in the mail just this week. Still, it kinda’ made me sad. Still, having been so far removed from my roots, I find myself wanting to slip back, wanting to be accepted among those who are still “real.” The plastic academia call for little drama.

So, I recall the drama. I always try to get my sticky fingers in it. For Literary Journalism, I am determined to write a personal memoir story of sorts. I’m going to write about Donald and Daniel, my father’s brothers who were conjoined and lived to be three months old. They were born in January ’53 and died in March ’54. I found a Life Magazine with a brief article about them in it. I found a website that gave further details to the lives of “freaks.” I’ve been thinking hard about it, trying to figure out how to give the babies justice, trying to figure out where the truth of the story might be. I’m wondering if the truth won’t be revealed in the effort I put into trying to pull the story from my father. My father already thinks I’m nuts and that what I’m doing doesn't make total sense. Then again, our conversations have always been sparse and the better ones have always required the presence of alcohol on both parts. So the story won’t be about the twins at all. It will have to be about me being able to pull off an intelligent and pointed conversation with my father.

The essays on ethics keep me rolling in worry. But then, I wonder, will my family even be interested in reading something that I’ve written? The “truth” is that it’s unlikely. Then again, I’ve underestimated them before.