what's the most you ever lost on a coin toss?

There's this philosophic term, I can't for the life of me remember the name for it, but I think it's called the "confrontation of souls", where when two strangers walk on the same road towards one another, instead of ignoring or offering blase banter, they engage one another and have a genuine confrontation, a real recognition of the existence of another.

And there's this scene in NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN that I haven't be able to get out of my mind. Anton Chiggurh, the cold sociopathic murderer, gets into a verbal confrontation with the elderly gas station manager which ends up with a coin toss that determines the life or death of said attendant:

Anton Chigurh: [indicating bag of cashews] How much?
Gas Station Proprietor: Sixty-nine cent.
Anton Chigurh: This. And the gas.
Gas Station Proprietor: Y'all gettin' any rain up your way?
Anton Chigurh: What way would that be?
Gas Station Proprietor: I seen you was from Dallas.
Anton Chigurh: What business is it of yours where I'm from, friendo?
Gas Station Proprietor: I didn't mean nothin' by it.
Anton Chigurh: Didn't mean nothin'.
Gas Station Proprietor: I was just passin' the time. If you don't wanna accept that I don't know what else to do for you. Will there be something else?
Anton Chigurh: I don't know. Will there?
Gas Station Proprietor: Is somethin' wrong?
Anton Chigurh: With what?
Gas Station Proprietor: With anything?
Anton Chigurh: Is that what you're asking me? Is there something wrong with anything?
Gas Station Proprietor: Will there be anything else?
Anton Chigurh: You already asked me that.
Gas Station Proprietor: Well... I need to see about closin'.
Anton Chigurh: See about closing.
Gas Station Proprietor: Yessir.
Anton Chigurh: What time do you close?
Gas Station Proprietor: Now. We close now.
Anton Chigurh: Now is not a time. What time do you close?

I always loved this scene for it's progression- the cashier/manager getting noticeably more nervous and trying to extricate himself from a precarious situation as Anton deftly pierces through his bullshit excuses and confronts him. But now, I realize that its so much more then a narrative demonstration of Anton's malevolent character. It's more than a confrontation between two characters-it's the neverending negotiation of man with death. Anton is the cold, unfeeling, sporatic force of nature eliminating those surrounding him at random-there's no "God's plan" to it all. In fact, Anton's completely absolved of all direction or free will- his choices for his victims depend entirely on the command of a coin toss. The cashier, sensing his weakness and human fraility in the face of this force weakly attempts to disentangle himself struggling and fighting to keep his life.

This is the true confrontation of souls- Anton cuts through through the bullshit of societal pleasantries to the core of their interaction-the empty, unfeeling, black void of death interacting with the simplicty and fraility of man, struggling in vain to control his destiny and life. Which remains interesting because in the coin toss, the cashier makes the correct call, thus for a bleak moment, maintaining the appearance of control. People often lament the randomness of tragedy- a schoolbus full of children crashing, the beloved public figure meeting some unfortunate end. Yet they fail to realize that virtue does not determine longevity of life. When it comes down to it, life really can be just a coin toss.

who can tell the dancer from the dance?

Ode to a Nightengale
Forlon
The very word is like a bell tolling me back from thee to my sole self.
Adieu
The fancy cannot cheat so as she famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu, adieu
thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows,
over the still stream, up the hillside and now
tis buried deep in the next valley glades.
Was it a vision or a waking dream?
Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?

-John Keats

The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems about

and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.

-Jeffrey McDaniel


I remember when I was younger, one of my favorite secret pleasures was when as a class we would read aloud, pouring through the pages and chapters of the novel we were currently tackling. I was always transfixed at hearing the prose spoken aloud, the disjointed melody of the words trickling together, painting the world, scene, and characters in front of my mind's eye. Perhaps that is why I am so enamored of film and television- the spoken word never fails to entrance me.

Considering how crazy my life has become, I have taken solace in the little pleasures. Cooking myself a delicious meal while listening to music. Sitting alone in silence reading a book/script. Stepping away from a boisterous, raucous party to drink in the night. Solitude is neither here nor there in my current state but I seek it out desperately when my claustrophia kicks in.

pleasure little treasure

I've always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, leap-before-I-leap kinda girl.
I've always focused on the present-the pleasures of the here and now. I feel like most my age perceive their life as a constant climb, fixated on the possibilities of tomorrow, the light at the end of the tunnel. Recently, I've started to join the ranks.

It's tough because it's hard to discern if it's my youthful arrogance or if I'm actually ready to do more. Living in the here and now, I look at past transgressions and behavior and feel so removed from the person I was who committed them. I'ts hard to know whether or not I will have these same emotions in the years to come. All I know is I love the job that I am hopefully destined to do. I want it so bad I can taste it. It's an all-consuming passion of the most desirous kind-self-fulfillment combined with the ecstasy of success.



In other news, I've found that I've been needing more and more solitary time. Time to unwind with my thoughts, listen to music, and experiment with recipes, spices, and food. I've come to the conviction that's there's no meditation, no religious practice more zen that mincing garlic. The satisfaction of the chop, the heady aroma it releases, the peace of focusing on one singular task...nothing greater. I've always said that if nothing else works out, I want to own my own Italian restaurant. Until the moment of truth, it's filed in the dreams for later bin. Time to focus up!

pull me out from inside

I am covered in skin. No one gets to come in.



There was this moment. When it happened, I had one of those out of self times, where I disconnected, looked at the scene, and tried to visually and mentally encapture every element about it.

Stutter shook and uptied.

There I was, sweaty and annoyed-having moved box after box,anxiously awaiting your aid yet receiving none, resolved to move everything myself. Furnitureless, I sat on the floor, looking at the bare bones of my new home, imagining the possibilities, the wiped clean slate of a new abode. Finally, there you were, but not just you but a bag chock full. My favorite wine, my favorite cheeses, a box of crackers that I had mentioned to you in passing that I liked. All was forgiven. We sat in the empty space of my new apartment and made a picnic of your plethora. As we sat there eating and talking, I thought to myself- this is good. He is here. He is now. I kissed you.


I am ready.
I am ready.
I am fine.