tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61160852009-09-29T14:42:40.977-04:00tales of a girl in the cityKathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comBlogger251125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-72861003549445040132008-06-01T13:00:00.011-04:002008-06-01T19:24:53.034-04:00

Barcelona had put on her best for us. The evening light, still bright at nine p.m., was rich and gold. It touched breezy sixth-story windows and lingered on the brown arms of Spanish women as they crossed the boulevard. Gaudi’s La Pedrera was shining further down the street, beautiful and proud and odd. The Hotel Majestic’s rooftop sign was glowing too, writing its name across the skyline in

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-34151387937446262942007-12-20T22:41:00.000-05:002007-12-24T19:25:11.120-05:00

This year. This black, dark year.I moved to this city in love, part of a partnership. I remember walking through Rittenhouse Square in August of 2006 and feeling as though I was on the verge. At the crest. Exciting things were beginning. My father was alive. Harvard was all the things I thought I wanted him to be.Tonight, all I can do is shake my head, thinking back to all of the changes that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-82025351173029425262007-11-12T21:39:00.000-05:002007-11-12T23:14:20.886-05:00

Tonight I will let go of this memory. And this one. I will be a great, dark tree. I will let fall the days like leaves. Let fall each sad, dead moment. This one. This one. My father crying and crying. My mother laying across his body. The black bag they zipped closed in front of our Christmas tree.So many people in my life would say, "Shhhhh." Would ask me to keep the secret. "Shhhh,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-44015233726494642712007-11-08T11:12:00.000-05:002007-11-08T11:44:38.909-05:00

As the year marches forward, I track the days like this:What was happening last year? In the beginning of October I remembered the day we had to put my father's dog to sleep. And the anniversary of the day he called me, crying. Last year, around this time, he had pneumonia. And soon the harder days will come. The day before Thanksgiving when he sat in his chair by the fireplace and told me

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-90165170463650295742007-09-17T19:22:00.000-04:002007-09-20T12:49:21.826-04:00

The last thing my father said to me was, "I love you, Girl." He said it as I left my home in Wisconsin. Through the medication that by then had left him slumping in his chair, barely able to lift his head, he looked at me from the living room, clear and sharp and strong for one last second, and told me that he loved me.I wish I had my father's eyes.That night they were like razors.Soon after that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-79423164625475186992007-03-25T17:37:00.000-04:002007-03-25T19:05:06.165-04:00

I have done this thing before. If I want to remind myself of all the times I've said the words, asked the questions, made the phone calls and taken the walks, all I need to do is scroll down the list of dates next to this entry. There they will be:The night in Riverside Park. October and Dan. The end of my first relationship with a grown-up (read: someone who had more than ketchup and beer

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1166976022982625482006-12-24T10:56:00.000-05:002006-12-24T11:00:22.996-05:00

Daddy, I will think of you every time I see a bird. A goose, a red-wing blackbird, a mallard, a goldfinch: I will know the difference because of you. I will notice the colors of their wings--the blues or reds or greys or blacks and think of you at our kitchen table painting those colors with so much care. I will be the only girl in New York City who knows that you mount a wood-duck house at an

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1166125935861204362006-12-14T13:41:00.000-05:002006-12-14T23:00:01.233-05:00

Spreads like a cancer. I understand that now. It means speed. Real life clipping along like time-lapse photography. Watching the x-rays as the dark moths spread. As they flit from lung to rib. From rib to spine. And from there to kidney, to brain, to liver, leaving every recognizeable organ swarming with black shadows. Next, they rise to the surface, drinking deeply from the bruises that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1150665591067034262006-06-18T17:18:00.000-04:002006-06-18T17:19:51.083-04:00

Wisconsin still smells like cedar, even though my dad is sick.Mom still drives home slow from the airport. She still wants to hear every story told from the beginning, and prompts me--like she always does--by saying, "So, you got up. You got on the plane...." But she also says new things, like, "We are not telling Grandma." We are not telling anyone, I find out, because the cancer is Dad's

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1149194527778479152006-06-01T15:56:00.000-04:002006-06-01T17:06:54.056-04:00

"Well, your father and I just wanted you to know that we got the test results back, and it looks like cancer."That was how my mother told me, barely 24 hours ago. Her tone wasn't grave--it was more "We've decided to go with blue in the bathroom instead of red" than I would've anticipated. But, who could blame her? She was in shock. I was in shock. I am still in shock: My father is never sick

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1147635927675083172006-05-14T15:25:00.000-04:002006-05-14T16:39:34.436-04:00

The first thing I think is, I will have to throw out all of my old underwear.In my mind I do a quick overview of every item in my underwear drawer. The effect inside my head is not dissimilar to a sweeping aerial shot, like the ones they do in movies about Africa. In the films, the camera-attached-to-aeroplane swoops over a hillside and beams of light fall on the animals, illuminating hippos,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1145413281894953242006-04-18T22:10:00.000-04:002006-04-18T22:23:45.883-04:00

I think of you every time I pass by the tables outside of bookshops. Brown, black. Cardboard. Leather. They are all piled there, the smell of them was the smell of your room. You, like me, always loved to read a good story told well. And more than that, maybe, we shared a love of the preservation those stories bring. The idea of safety. Open a book to an outcome that is the same every time

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1143404538556187062006-03-26T10:36:00.000-05:002006-03-30T22:37:19.486-05:00

I have gone alone to the symphony dozens of times. I spend intermission strolling around Alice Tully Hall, picking up the bits of conversations people let fall. I like to watch the old women who come in pairs. They move together in clouds of perfume, silver-haired. Strange angels. Their husbands are dead maybe, or maybe unwilling: "You just go, Norma. Those damn seats kill my knees." I

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1142481142171051782006-03-15T22:05:00.000-05:002006-03-21T11:04:33.893-05:00

In case my friend reads my blog and discovers how conflicted I am about her husband, I am offering up the following old diary entries to prove that I, too, have had sex with (or wanted to have sex with) idiots. Hopefully this will make my friend feel better and remind her that I love her. Though it is worth mentioning that I did not marry any of my idiots. Ahem.Anyway. From April 30, 2003:

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1142018694968521002006-03-10T13:38:00.000-05:002006-03-13T18:33:40.206-05:00

Avoid. I see her number come up on my cell phone screen for the third time in as many weeks, and, once again, I don't pick up. Can't pick up. I hit the "Decline" button. When I see the "New Voice Message" symbol come up, I almost roll my eyes. But then I remember that she's got every right to leave a message--we are supposed to be friends. I dial into my voicemail and hear: "Hey,it's m--."

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120520577360088542006-03-04T19:29:00.000-05:002006-03-05T13:46:51.273-05:00

Wearing a Ducks Unlimited hat and one of my dad's huge flannel shirts--the excellent kind, the kind with the quilted lining--Dad and I paddle around the bog for nearly two hours. It's raining, but it doesn't matter. A bullfrog somewhere in the reeds does more talking than we do, except when my father calls out the Latin names of the plants we drift by. "Nymphaea odorata . Water lilies," he

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1137724707809486852006-03-02T09:23:00.000-05:002006-03-02T14:04:58.980-05:00

I believe in other people. I hand them my belief in bright, shiny boxes, wrapped up in paper as gold as the stars my first grade teacher used to put on homework. My belief is unconditional. It is absolute. I say: You are brilliant. You're gorgeous. Of course you can do this. I offer my friends--and even some of my acquaintances--these sentiments one after another. Like party favors: a bag of my

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1140972335182082932006-02-26T11:42:00.000-05:002006-02-27T10:28:31.890-05:00

I am feeling a little guilty about wearing my fur hat. Perhaps because my roommate--who is training to be a yoga instructor--has covered our kitchen table with stickers declaring "Fur Is Dead."And she's right. Fur is dead. But it is also soft and warm and very soothing when you put it on your head and name it Vlad and pet it sometimes when you're on the subway. This morning in particular I was

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1140666220167263482006-02-22T22:41:00.000-05:002006-02-22T22:48:01.190-05:00

I cannot love you in a small way. Having tried to carve it down to a palatable size, to pair it into only what is essential, I conclude that there is no option but to leave it as it is, grandly unwanted, and awkwardly looming. A misplaced giant, with its feet in a field of tiny bluebells. This love I have cannot tiptoe. Cannot sprinkle or speck or drizzle. It can only stomp. Can only flood.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1139799329842269632006-02-12T21:03:00.000-05:002006-02-16T22:53:05.213-05:00

The only unit in gym that I was ever any good at was square dancing. I couldn't run, or aim, or catch, or throw, but I could do-si-do with the best of 'em, which placed me pretty solidly with the fat kids and the asthmatics when it came time to pick teams. In fact, were it possible for the gym captains to choose the PTA-purchased kiddie-keg of McDonald's Orange Drink to be on their kickball

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1138463089242626592006-01-28T10:42:00.000-05:002006-01-30T12:11:14.926-05:00

Thursday night was about breastfeeding. About sitting with six women in their thirty-somethings and hearing about newborns, bedrest, thwarted creative endeavors, stepchildren, and pre-school interviews. It was a baby brought along, to sleep in the corner, and could I "just check to see if he's breathing once and awhile?" It was about thinking, "Oh? Is that all?" but saying, "Ummm...ok," while

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1137264684604569262006-01-14T11:52:00.000-05:002006-01-14T15:16:30.990-05:00

It's raining; it's always raining when you're outside in line in January and trying to get into a crowded New York club. And it's high school all over again because suddenly there are Cool Kids and Not-Cool Kids, only--just like in high school--the difference seems arbitrary.A cab pulls up. A girl gets out. She's pretty. She's with a guy. Suit. Tie. A banker maybe. A millionaire maybe. They

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1136660913445538612006-01-07T13:46:00.000-05:002006-01-07T14:08:33.456-05:00

Christmas means bunking down in my parent's house in Wisconsin, watching, like, 80 hours or so of The West Wing on DVD. It means observing my parent's little dog Buster Bumbles as he stress-eats (my brother and I returning home for the Holidays scares him almost as much as thunder). It means my weird extended family (dad's side) and my fun extended family (mom's side). It means being reminded

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1135031932395873092005-12-21T17:18:00.000-05:002005-12-27T14:03:00.406-05:00

Guys do nicknames.They give them to one another at work, on sports teams, between friends. And they also give them to girls. I'm told they do this--at least partially--to keep track of one another's love lives. This is hilarious because the majority of guys I know only date one girl at a time, and I hardly see how remembering one additional name per friend could be difficult. But, they claim it

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1135094481246026712005-12-20T10:59:00.000-05:002005-12-20T11:01:21.260-05:00

No reading tonight after all.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.com