blurring_the_edges_3_gulf_coast_memory birdmad You are surprised as you sit there in the church, listening absentmindedly to the mass and breaking into song at the approapriate cues, that you are not thinking about Tricia or imagining how much fun you could have running rampant with Lena in an out of the way corner. You do wonder though, looking at Lena how two such entirely ordinary people such as her parents managed to produce a result as spectacular. It is, you think, sort of like when people breed two rather non-descript varieties of orchids and end up with something much greater than the sum of its origins. Your mind drifts away from Lena's intense green eyes or any other distractingly female images that might be tempted to play themselves back like projections on the retina of your mind's eye. The prevailing image in your head is a beach in Texas. The trip you took about six weeks after you buried your dad. Visiting with all of the relatives, you felt a combination of the idyllic senses of childhood underscored by everyone's affirmation that indeed, he was gone. But this stretch of beach is in your mind right now. The occasional ribbon of tar from a long-ago oil spill just visible under the sand, seagulls scrabbling about for handouts of bait-shrimp and popcorn. The sun setting at your back as you face out into the gulf. It is one of the few times in recent months where being rather alone didn't trouble you. When Mass is over, you and your mother waffle over whether to make anything for breakfast or to buy something from the kitchen. Ultimately, the church kitchen wins out and you make small talk with a combination of those who were here for the English Mass and the people who have come for the Spanish Mass buying breakfast from some of the church-ladies who alternate running the kitchen. If it had been Mrs. Valenzuela and her family, you would have cooked breakfast at home yourself, for fear of getting something so outrageously hot that you would be in fear for your ass for a couple of days afterward. As it stands, however, the kitchen is being staffed by Mrs. Herrera and her oldest daughters, one of whom has also been the inspiration for the kind of thoughts one shouldn't necessarily be indulging in during Mass. You! Hey! Alex! Try to focus a little here, will you? Jesus. Yeah, you come across real nice here in church, but how many of these mothers would let you anywhere near their daughters if they realized what a character you are when they aren't looking. After church, you get home and mow the lawn which has been growing rather quickly in this warm winter. The usual allergies don't bother you because Mrs. Herrera took a page out of the Valenzuela cookbook this week and decided to make her green chile burritos a little hotter than normal and almost to the point where it hurt to eat them. Your mom didn't flinch, but you are just now cultivating your taste for spicy food and your sinuses have been scoured as if by napalm and you are impervious to allergens with those vapors swirling about in your head. You take a shower and change out of your yardwork clothes. You borrow the phone and retreat to your room to call up somebody from your Constitutional Law study group to discuss the massive load of case-law examples that Ms. Hatcher dropped on the class like a truck full of bricks. Even with the cold winds coming off the gulf, you would rather be on that beach right now. Watching the sky change from clear to cloudy grey. Of all the people in the group, you reach Bob, the ex-cop who doesn't seem to have been paying much attention. After a few minutes of pointless discussion in which you realize that you are re-teaching him what he should have been following in class, you give up and call Jana from your political science 103 class and discuss the events on TV. She remarks that she's tired of the news and wishes that it was November of next year "so that we can maybe get rid of the residual scum of the Reagan years" She changes the subject and asks if you can bring some blank tapes to class on Tuesday. You have a funny sensation that rings through you when you talk to her. You are forming a rather intense crush on this girl but can say nothing becuase she seems determined to stick to some guy who has been mind-fucking her all semester. Another girl in the class has tried to tell her time and again that he does her more harm than good, but she blows it off. You promise to bring the tapes. You have a brick of good Maxell tapes 90 minute, high-quality. She seems impressed with your choice. "Have you ever heard of My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult?" she asks. "No. What's that?" "A really wild band i like," she follows, "i think you'll get a kick out of them. I would have used my own tapes but i'm all out and don't get paid for another week." "No problem...see youin class Tuesday?" "Yeah." Click. After letting that funny warm feeling in your chest recede a little, you go back to the box of notepads and examine your manuscript. You realize that it does look like a bad plagiarism of something someone else wrote and are getting increasingly pissed off that doesn't seem to be improving any after a hundred and twenty-five pages. Later, you comb the want ads looking for a straight job as the short temp-jobs and working at the Pavillion aren't cutting it and you are operating more on your other funds to do anything lately. Money you can't admit to anyone in the family that you have and certainly couldn't get away with putting in the bank. Yeah, nice job, genius. So much for saving up to get away. 030407 what's it to you? who go blather from