Hush Up

Look up! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's not moving, so it can't be either of those. It's up above, and it's making sound. Let's listen in to hear what it has to say...

Speaking changes everything. The act. The words. The power. I wonder, do you know what your course words have done? Do you see how words brought up an Empire that brought down a Generation? Once we opened the gates of Auschwitz, how could we ever open our mouths again? Words are guilty of such horrors.

How can I steward them well, then? Carefully, I suppose. But, hush, can you hear? There's something lingering in the silence. Over there. Behind here. It's between the words. Listen close. It's soft; it's soothing. It cools the heat of the burning words.

Burning words, white hot words. What's the verb of that sentence fragment? Do you see how they still carry power? Did you hear the verb whispering in between the lines?

Go. Do. Think. Be. Create. Do you see how they command? I cannot command much of an audience, but what audience I do have I must speak to responsibly. I have these words, and I cannot toss them around lightly. They carry power and authority. I, the one who bears them, must do so thoughtfully. Can you imagine the ramifications if I threw words around with reckless abandon? Shirts would get printed with the word "wreckless" on them. Incidentally, this has already happened. I saw it on Wednesday. I saw a shirt that said, "Young and Wreckless." Absurdism begins to make sense in the face of these atrocities.

I wanted to cry.

Instead, I stewed on the idea that spelling is actually important. Grammar is actually important as well. When I'm tempted to use poor grammar, I think of Picasso. Have you ever seen any of his earliest works? The man was phenomenal in traditional art forms. He could paint in realism, impressionism, or pointillism  beautifully. After demonstrating proficiency in these recognized art forms, he broke free and began to paint outside the boundaries of accepted art. Virginia Woolf did something similar with the sentence. I am not Picasso or Woolf. I ought to demonstrate an exceedingly high level of proficiency with the English language before I attempt to break free from the bonds of grammar rules.

Do you know what the purpose of grammar and syntax is? The purpose of grammar and syntax is to facilitate effective communication. It's wise stewardship of words. Forming sentences well allows one to communicate most effectively. I'm not saying that every sentence should always be grammatically correct; I have a great deal of respect for Picasso and Woolf. Those great artists and writers, however, demonstrated an ability to communicate effectively inside and out of traditional boundaries. They were not breaking rules out of laziness; they created something new with intentionality.

But this blog was about silence to begin with. (Never start a sentence with a conjunction. Never end a sentence with a preposition.) Wasn't it?

Where do we go from here? Words have been abused. Grammar and syntax have been abused to the detriment of clear communication. Where do we go from here?

We go forward. We reclaim the words, and we use them responsibly. We craft our sentences with silence and intentionality. We complete our paragraphs, and we communicate thoughtfully.

Hush, did you hear something here?

Old School

Christina opened her eyes when her alarm croaked at 6am. Thank God it's Friday, she thought as she flung the covers off and rolled out of bed towards her closet. She pulled on her workout clothes and ambled into her parents mini home gym that shared the basement with her. She usually spent her time on the treadmill mentally going over what she needed to do that day. Normally her mornings were easy going before she worked her eight hour shift from noon to 8pm at a secondhand bookstore. However, this Friday she was working from 8am to 4pm because she had dinner plans with old friends from high school.

Christina's two best friends had both gone out of state for college when they graduated while she had spent a year at the local community college before settling in to her full time job selling books. Christina was a little self-conscious about seeing her old friends who had become such big successes in the six years since high school.

At work, her mind was constantly thinking about how she could hold her own in a conversation with a lawyer and a stock broker. When she made it home she went straight to her closet to find a suitable dress for the fancy restaurant Jane had picked out. Christina didn't spend a lot of money on clothes, so her selection was limited. She decided on her simple red dress which she usually wore to weddings and hoped her black dress boots weren't too casual for the high class dining.

When she stepped into the restaurant, she didn't immediately see her friends, but before she could ask the hostess anything, she heard someone bellow from the bar, "Over here, Christina!"

She turned to see Scott waving her over. She smiled and went to join him. His supermodel grin was wider than usual, and he held an almost empty drink in his hand.

"Don't know where Janey is, but apparently the reservation isn't until 6:30. I coulda sworn she said six. I've been hear waiting for you two to show up for nearly half an hour."

Scott's grin was unwavering while he spoke, and it occurred to Christina that she hadn't ever seen him drink alcohol before. That wasn't particularly significant, though, because they were only nineteen the last time they had spent time together.

Christina realizes she didn't know where to start a conversation with Scott, so she thought to break the ice by jokingly asking, "How's the stock market these days?"

Scott laughed in response. "It's a good think I’m great at my job, otherwise I'd be out on the street like half the guys from my office. I've only been at the Auburn Hills location a short time, but a lot of the old timers at my branch lost the company a lot of money in April and then lost their jobs in May. Boy, I'm glad I moved back here because those idiots make me look brilliant. If I'd stayed in California, I'd be the one without a job."

"Why did you come back last fall, Scott? I never heard the story."

"I couldn’t stand the liberals," Scott said.

Christian wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but it was the first time his grin dimmed. She raised her eyebrows and nodded, unsure how else to response. Back in their private high school, safe within the brick walls paid for by rich conservatives, Christina and her friends made jokes about liberals all the time. In their childish slang, "liberal" was a derogatory word. Christina considered herself an adult now, though, and hadn't used namecalling since high school. She couldn't tell if Scott was referencing their old joke or still genuinely believed liberals were trying to suck life, joy, and money out of American society.

Scott finished his drink unaware of the awkwardness he had brought to the conversation. Christina picked at her fingernails trying to think of something else to say to change the subject.

"I can't believe you've been here almost six months and we haven't seen each other. What have you been up to since you moved back?"

"Work, work, work," Scott said, "Making money doesn't leave much time for hobbies. Plus I've got a load of student loans to pay off. If I can keep up with this rate, I should be free of them in eight years. But that's boring stuff. What's been going on here while I've been gone? What are you doing these days?

"Well, not a lot has changed around here. I still work at the bookstore, and I lead a couple book clubs each month. I volunteer once a week to read to kids in grade school through the "Read to Me" program.

She had more she could say, but she felt odd launching into a list of hobbies when Scott seemed to have none.

"Wow, that sounds like a lot," Scott said, "What kind of books do you read in these book clubs? I haven't read anything for fun in ages.

Before she could answer, they both heard Jane call out their names. Christina turned her head in response and was immediately thankful Jane had recognized her because there was no way Christian would have recognized Jane. In high school, Jane was a plump brunette with sparkly blue eyes; the only feature the nearly three hundred pound woman with unnaturally red hair shared with the high school version of Jane was the blue eyes.

"Janey!" Christina reminded herself to smile before walking over to her old friend.

"Janey!" Scott echoed much louder and rushed to give her a hug, "So good to see you!"

Jane laughed, "Get off, get off. Let's go to our table."

Jane led the way to the back of the restaurant and Christina wondered how she already knew where their table was. Scott wondered the same thing and voiced his question to Jane.

"Oh, I talked to them when I made the reservations. They have another one of these restaurants in Boston that I go to all the time with the same layout. I got us the back room so we can be as rambunctious as we like."

 The next two hours crept by slowly for Christina as she fumbled through a conversation that seemed much more natural for Scott and Jane. Scott downed several more drinks and told jokes about the dumb hippies he worked with in California. Jane ate two meals and told jokes about the stupid liberals she went to school with in Massachusetts. Except for the drinking and overeating, Scott and Jane were exactly the same as when they were in high school. Their maturity level was stuck at age eighteen and they spoke with the same arrogance and disrespect of a know-it-all high school student. Christina had worried that she would be the one left behind when her two friends went off to college, but over the course of their meal Christina discovered that though she had stayed the closest to home she had changed the most. Christina chewed her food carefully and hoped that she wouldn't be caught in a confession that she cared more about people than companies. In the midst of the meal, her friends jokes that seemed so mature when they were younger because so few teenagers were politically minded were exposed as the hateful rantings they really were. Christina wasn't bothered by the fact that these former friends were unchanged politically; many of her political views were the same. The quirk in their conversation that made her skin crawl was that Scott and Jane never grew up.

When their meal finally ended, Christina jumped at the first opportunity to excuse herself. Scott and Jane protested that they still had dessert and drinks, but she found a reason not to stay.

"I'm volunteering at the library in the morning, so I should really get some sleep."

"I can't believe how much of your time you give away. Do you ever do anything for yourself?" Jane said.

"Oh, sure." Christina replied.

Jane's question was hollow, and Christina decided it was unnecessary to try to explain to Jane that volunteering was for herself. She warmly embraced her two old friends before she left the restaurant, but walked off the premises as quickly as her fancy boots would let her. It wasn't a dramatic exit, but Christina recognized that it would be the last time she would ever spend time with Scott and Jane. She remained convinced an hour later when she received Jane's text, "This was fun. Let's do it again soon!" Christina smiled in response to the text, but deleted the number from her phone nonetheless. She found Scott's number and deleted it too. Tossing her phone aside, she picked out Kate Chopin's The Awakening from her bookshelf and curled up to read it in her favorite chair.

I'm Not Hungry Any More

These are just rough drafts of my thoughts. I haven't figured out much concretely yet. Please keep that in mind as you engage with the content below.

Halfway through a midnight showing of The Hunger Games it occurred to me that I was participating in exactly what the movie condemns: consuming violence for entertainment. And I even paid ten bucks to do it. The premise of the books and movies is that the citizens of the Capitol oppress those in the districts in order to live a consumeristic lifestyle of excess. I live in America; by default I am an excessive consumer. Need I be excessive? With effort, I believe it is possible for me to consume less.

The content of the consumption, though, is, I think, a matter of greater importance. I was sitting in the movie theater watching children kill each other in the name of Entertainment. My ten dollar tithe to the god of Hollywood gained me admission to watch an artificial bloodbath. Does it make any difference if the blood is real or not? I used to think it was just fine to watch gore and violence as long as I knew the images were fake; not actors were harmed in the filming of this battle. But now I have a different question: Why would I want to be entertained by visual representations of people dying gruesome deaths?

When I first read The Hunger Games, I doubted the premise that humanity could come to the point of forcing children to kill each other. My cousin quipped that the Romans did something close in the Colesseum. I doubted his argument. Plus, I didn't think society could "devolve" to something like that. Especially after the Holocaust. I mean, hasn't humanity learned anything from history? It took me a while to catch the chronological arrogance of my thinking. People are people, and I am no better than Romans who tossed people into the Colesseum or Nazis who tossed people into ovens.

Somehow during the movie I realized not only would the premise hold up in a futuristic dystopia, but it functions in our society right now: I was participating in it.

What then? By the time I made it to my car at three in the morning I wondered if I would ever be allowed to go to a movie theater again guilt free. Could I even ever watch another DVD? What was it that really plagued me while sitting in the movie theater? The consumption of violence for entertainment.

I think.

I'm still not really sure because somehow I don't feel guilty reading the books. What's the difference? I see two significant difference. First, the consumption of a book does not contribute to oppression in the same sense the consumerism of Hollywood does. Suzanne Collins can write a book and publish it without the entanglement of materialism inherent in the movie business. Second, the words in the book have the power to provoke my own imagination and I can steward the images in my own head. Violence on the screen is imposed on me with no opportunity to filter what I receive.

It's important for me to clarify that sometimes we need the imposition of violent images four our selfish minds to break away from their default incurvature to engage with others in a positive way. Visual media is incredibly valuable in so many ways. I could never discount the power of movies or documentaries that offer a glimpse of life in poverty in order to give those with too much a chance to share. In some of these cases violence is necessary to accurately describe or portray the circumstances. Examples like Hotel Rwanda and Born into Brothels are quick to come to mind. Both of these films have violence and graphic content presented to move the viewer emotionally rather than to titillate or amuse. The fake killings in Hotel Rwanda created to represent real ones and the real brutality captured in the documentary Born into Brothels are not there for entertainment purposes. They are there to make a point. And, I believe, they are intentionally used not to toy with the emotions of the viewer, but to move the audience into action in response.

Any good work of literature moves the reader to respond, to somehow live differently. I think that good movies do the same. Maybe the movie represention of The Hunger Games  was just so good it moved me to stop watching violent movies for entertainment.

An Open Letter to My Sister

Nini,

I love you. Contrary to what a lot of my words and actions would lead people to believe, I love you a great deal. I do, though, find it very difficult to get along with you. I genuinely want to work on that, and as part of my effort to get along with you better, I here attempt to articulate my difficulty opening up to you.

I really value literature. You know that I like books, but it's really much deeper than that. You see, the Word became flesh, and it radically impacted written texts. The Creator of our amazing universe gave us language and texts as a form of communication. We both know this truth, but we have responded differently. I have devoted my life to search for deeper relationships between the textual worlds and the empirical one based on the understanding that when the Word became flesh and dwelled among us, the empirical world was forever changed. I strongly believe that texts are infused with power, and they ought to be used responsibly. They deserve respect, not abuse.

You once told me that you read to escape, and at that very moment I completely shut down emotionally and have not allowed myself to be emotionally vulnerable around you since (I'm not saying we haven't fought since - I have just been emotionally disengaged from all communication with you) because I consider reading as an escape to be such a horrendous abuse of a text. You are using a text to disengage with your life rather than respecting it as something capable of enhancing your ontological reality.

Now, as I'm sure you were quick to notice, my disengagement from you, an actual ontological person, is no better than your treatment of textual worlds. I admit my sin, and I ask your forgiveness. I won't even ask you to read any differently. All I ask of you is that you understand that when you disregard textual reality, it's a personal wound to me. You see, sometimes I feel like Mali, the gardener of the Sea of Stories. In Rushdie's tale, Mali's sole purpose is to care for all of the stories in the ocean. I feel a responsibility to care for texts, and when someone pollutes the ocean which I care for, and which also sustains me, I get sick.

I can't know for sure if telling you this will actually help you understand me any more, but I'm making an effort to remove any road blocks I have put up to prevent you from knowing me. For example, hiding the fact that I have a blog from you for over a year (and still hiding it from most of our family - again, I can't keep you from blabbing, but I ask you respect my wishes right now) kept a lot of who I am from you. My writing makes me feel incredibly vulnerable, and I have hidden it from some of the people I love the most because they are capable of hurting me the most deeply. You are capable of hurting me most deeply, Nini.

I know that there are many careless readers on the internet capable of stumbling upon my writing and abusing my text with only a surface reading, but I cannot think of a single human being who would wound me more by doing that than you, Nini.

And so, I hope, begins a dialogue. 

Cracks in the Ice

I stared at the blank canvases on display at the art store, but I wasn't sure how I would be able to fill one again. I awkwardly picked up one of the largest ones and brought it with me to the paint aisle. I stared at the rows of colors for a long time. I sighed. I knew I didn't have enough paint left at home to cover a second canvas, but I hadn't been seized by any new vision to express on the canvas either. I picked up a bottle of dark blue similar to what  I had before and two lighter shades of blue to go along with it.

Once I got my new supplies home, I laid the new canvas out on my floor just as I had done before. My few colors of paint sat next to me on the floor. Still, no inspiration struck as it had before. I was unsure when Zosima had asked for the second piece, but it was such a treat to have my heat on that it would have been stupid to refuse. My check would last a long time, but not forever. Plus, Zosima hadn't told me when he planned to return. I didn't want him to show up expecting a completed work only to find that I had only sat and twiddled my thumbs during his absence.

I glared at the blank canvas before me; it glared right back. Frustrated, I emptied the remainder of my first dark blue paint on to the center of the pristine canvas. I smeared it around to cover the glaring white. Once the dark blue reached the edges of the canvas I added more from the fresh bottle of paint to ensure that no white escaped my wrath. Next I squirted two purple patches that turned into oversized hands as I stretched the paint out with my fingers. I sat back and looked at the shadowy hands before me. I stood up and went to the kitchen sink to wash the paint off my hands. This one wasn't going to be finished in one sitting.

I left the canvas on my floor to dry that night, and the image of the hands haunted my dreams. They were my hands, and I was trapped beneath thick ice, running out of air, unable to break through. I tossed and turned in my bed for several hours before giving up on sleep and going into my kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I wrapped myself up in a thick blanket as I waited for the water to get hot. I only had the stove light on, so the canvas wasn't well lit, but as I stared at it my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I again felt as though the oversized hands on the canvas were mine trapped below inches of unforgiving ice. I don't know how long I stared at the canvas before my kettle of water started to whistle. I fumbled with a tea bag, mug, and boiling water. With the soothing scent of orange peels and spices steeping in hot water, I walked towards the foreboding canvas. Why would I paint my own hands trapped beneath the ice?

Since I had finished the previous painting in one sitting and hid it from my sight, I hadn't had the previous opportunity to mull over what I was putting onto the canvas. I stared at the purple hands for a long time, slowly sipping my tea. My apartment got gradually lighter as the sun joined my early morning, and eventually I decided to shower and get ready for my day. I was scheduled for an extra long shift at the restaurant that day, but I still had several hours to kill before then. I got dressed and made myself a healthy breakfast reheated pasta leftovers from two days ago at work. I wasn't yet out of the habit of surviving off of free food from work. I turned my back to the canvas as I ate my pasta, slowly chewing each bite and not wanting to return to my painting. I didn't like it staring at me, so I childishly avoided it until I had to go to work. Waiting tables kept my mind off the canvas for twelve hours until I stumbled back into my apartment late that night. The purple hands were waiting for me. My keys clattered on the counter as I tossed them aside, and I squatted down near the canvas.

I couldn't leave it forever. But maybe I could leave it one more day.

I slept poorly again that night, and decided when I woke up that I needed to deal with the painting. I pulled out small selection of colors and sat down cross-legged in front of the canvas. The purple hands pushed out of a deep blue background, and I realized that the image didn't reflect the resistance my hands felt in my dream. I squeezed a small amount of white paint into my hand and an even smaller amount of light blue to mix into that. I smeared the colors together on both my hands and lightly began to touch the surface of the canvas. After an hour, most of the canvas was covered with a web-like design of faint blue and white. There were still a few cracks in the webbing where the hands gave resistance - cracks in the ice. I dipped a the same pen cap in a tiny puddle of white paint to scrawl my name at the bottom. I washed the blue and white off my hands and tucked the bottles of paint back into my mostly empty kitchen cupboards.

The canvas stayed where it was when I left for work, and it wasn't until when I got home from my shift that night that I placed the finished painting in the window just as I had left the first one where Zosima saw it from the street.

He was on my doorstep early the next afternoon. I didn't bother to think about how he would know I had the day off, but instead I opened the door wide for him to enter. He greeted me respectfully, and I crossed my tiny living room to the window where is new painting was hiding.

I walked it back to him, and he looked at it briefly before writing in the checkbook already in his hands. He handed me a check for five thousand dollars; this one had two grazing rhinos behind the text.

He picked up the painting and headed for the door. "Thank you," he said, "I look forward to the next one."

He left without giving me a chance to protest. 

Bells

"I guess I can't keep putting this off forever…" Jessie fumbled with her keys as her words trailed off.

My ears perked up. She was going to ask me into her apartment. I knew it. Finally. I had waited three months. At the end of our numerous dates she had always only kissed me goodnight on her doorstep. I was kinda falling in love with this girl, and I didn't know if she was taking me seriously. In three months, even with occasional legitimate reasons to invite me into her apartment, she had dismissed me at the door or made me stay waiting at the street as she ran in to grab something she forgot.

I didn't want to push my way in, so I waited for her to invite me.

"Listen, Chuck, I really like you, and I don't want you to think that I’m crazy..."
I wanted to interrupt with an "I really like you too," but I knew I had to let her say her piece before she would let me upstairs.

"This is going to sound ridiculous, but I actually hate bells."

I literally bit my lip to keep from laughing. Jessie often said random things; it was part of why I liked her so much. She always kept me guessing, but I couldn't guess what bells had to do with me not being allowed in her apartment or why that should make me think she's crazy. Furthermore, these long pauses were killing me.

"Okay," I smiled, "I can hate bells too if you want."

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying. I just need you to know that before you see my apartment. Look, I really hate bells. I promise. But I can't seem to convince -. Well, I'll just show you."
She turned and opened the door to her apartment. I followed her up the three flights of stairs. She slowed down in front of the second door and put her key into the lock - I noticed her tiny bell keychain for the first time as she turned the key.

She really didn't prepare me for what I would see when she turned the lights on, but it's a good thing she told me that she hated bells. If she had neglected to tell me that before I saw her apartment, I would never have believed her.

Bells covered everything. Rows and Rows of bells lined shelves and desk space. Anything in her apartment that had a flat surface had at least one bell on it, generally several more. Tiny collectible bells. Hand painted porcelain ones. Shiny brass ones. State ones. Country ones.  Figurine ones. A series of Disney princesses covered an end table. A row of birds sprang out of the bells on one of her bookshelves.

"So do you hate all bells, or just the ones you don't own?" I couldn't come up with a better response.

Jessie gave an embarrassed sigh and walked into her bedroom. I followed. Her bedroom was decorated much more like I anticipated than the rest of her apartment; her CD collection lining an entire wall, and a bright green blanket casually draped across the end of her lint free black comforter. Two comfy looking chairs squeezed into a corner with a tiny table in between made the perfect reading space. A couple classy black and white photographs hung on the wall, but no shelves of bells cluttered the space. I notice, though, a single R2D2 shaped bell well displayed on her dresser.

"That's the only bell I don't hate." She gestured to R2D2 before sinking into one of the reading chairs.

I sat down in the other and waited for her to continue; she needed to explain this repulsive collection.

When I was a kid I saw this R2D2 bell in the window of a collectible shop and saved up for a month to buy it. R2D2 was my favorite character in all the Star Wars movies. My parents thought that I was enamored with collectible bells." She sighed before continuing, "Every birthday and Christmas after that every family member bought me a bell. They were from family, so I couldn't get rid of them. I put them all on a shelf in my room, and growing up my friends would see the shelf and assume that I liked bells. Soon all I was getting for my birthday or Christmas was a bell. If a friend went on a trip to a different state or country, they would bring me back a bell. It turned into a monstrosity of a collection before I was able to stop it. Even now I try to politely discourage people from giving me bells, but if they've been in my apartment they can't seem to resist." When she finished, Jessie bit her lower lip in that adorable way she always does when she's embarrassed and waited for me to respond.

"I guess I can't complain when my Nana sends me the fifty-second horrible tie next holiday."

Jessie laughed. "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"Why would I think you're crazy just because crazy people buy you bells? I mean who are these nutzos? Why don't they buy you CDs or music gift cards? Or apple lotion? Or chewy Chips Ahoy cookies? Or a million other things you love?"

I saw the tears start to pool up in Jessie's eyes, and for some weird reason I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I didn't care that she had a million bells, because I knew that I would never be responsible for giving her one. Each of those bells was a ringing symbol of pain that someone who claimed to love her didn't know her well enough to give her something she'd genuinely appreciate, and I could think of a huge list of things not remotely related to bells that I wanted to lavish her with because I knew they could make her feel loved. I wanted more than anything to make her feel loved, and I told her so.

"I promise to never give you a single bell for the rest of your life," I said as I leaned close as if to kiss her but whispered instead, "Unless it's a matching C3PO to go with R2 over there."

She laughed loudly; I love that laugh. "You know, no one even ever thought to complete the Star Wars collection of bells."

"Then it's settled. C3PO will be your last bell ever. After I buy him, we will formally announce to the world how much you hate bells."

"I've tried; it's not quite that simple. These bells are from family."

I couldn't quite read the look on her face, but I was determined to rescue her from this bell hole in which she was trapped. "Don't worry," I said, "We'll figure it out." 

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

"You're so selfish, Amy!" Corrine looked ready to throw her forkful of mashed potatoes across the table at her younger sister.

Amy took a deep breath before she responded to her older sister; she felt capable of stabbing Corrine with her own fork. "I don't understand what you think is so selfish, Corrine." Amy grimaced as she spoke.

"I asked you what you like about your job; you tell everyone you love it so much. Why won't you tell me?"

Amy sighed again, trying to formulate an appropriate response. She had resisted telling her sister that she loved working at the Sears's photography center because she could practice the hobby she hoped to someday turn into a career. Just a few moments before asking her sister about work, Corrine had offered strongly worded complaints about the new photography collection at the Portland Art Museum. Apparently Corrine had been stuck in downtown traffic created by the grand opening of the new permanent photography collection. Amy was unconvinced that even in Portland could a new wing in a museum upset traffic that much, but she resisted arguing with her sister. Corrine's complaints about the value of photography had made Amy hesitant to share her desire to become a photographer. She was again presented with the need to respond to her sister without heightening the already tense situation.

"It's nothing against you, Corrine," Amy started off with a blatant lie, "I just don't have any specific reasons for liking my job. It fits me well all around." At least her last sentence was true.

Corrine was unsatisfied and violently stabbed at the gravy drenched turkey on her plate as she grumbled, "I still think you're not being honest with me."

"I'm so thankful to have both my beautiful daughters here on Thanksgiving!" The interruption of their father seemed ill timed, but at least it was redirecting the conversation rather than irritating the argument as his comments usually did. "And my beautiful wife and granddaughter, and you, too, Stuart." He laughed at his own unfunny joke that resisted calling his son-in-law beautiful. Stuart politely chuckled along, still uncomfortable by his wife and sister-in-law's heated exchanged. It wasn't the first time he'd witnessed the sisters fight, but no one likes to be a bystander in a family quarrel.

"Thanks for hosting us, Mom and Dad," Stuart awkwardly tried to push the conversation further away from the sisters' argument.

The family finished their meal in uncomfortable silence.

Amy's mom insisted that they have time to let their dinner settle before bringing out the pies. Amy would have preferred to leave immediately after dinner, but she knew it would only upset her sister more. She settled into the twenty-year old sofa to watch the holiday made for TV movie her dad had turned on. The predictable plot couldn't keep Amy's attention, and her mind replayed the conversation from earlier that afternoon. Corrine had made a comment about how art was worthless, and Amy had subsequently shut down emotionally for the rest of the day. Amy brooded through the cliché kiss at the end of the holiday movie when her mom finally decreed it was time for dessert.

Amy sat herself down at the countertop where all the pies were laid out and served herself a large slice of apple pie. She lifted the first forkful to her mouth when Corrine interrupted her enjoyment of warm apple and cinnamon.

"Listen, Amy, I don't want us to leave upset." Her tone was patronizing. Amy chose to keep her focus on her pie as her sister continued.

"Maybe we could have lunch tomorrow," Corrine said, "I really want to be friends with you, not just sisters." Corrine reached her hand out to touch her little sister's left hand while she finished speaking. Amy's first instinct was to recoil her hand at the first touch, but she chose to keep her hand under her sister's although every muscle in her body was tense. She took another bite of pie with her free right hand.

"I know," Corrine continued, "We could go see a movie. What's out right now?"

"There's that movie version of Rent -"
            "Ugh, the artsy one, right? I don't want to see that. What a waste of time. Why would anyone waste time watching that?"

"I think it's a cultural representation of modern life to demonstrate the relevance of -"
            "Whatever, I don't want to see it. What else is out?"

Amy pushed the crumbs of her pie around on her plate. "I don't know what else is out."

"How about we just go Christmas shopping? I need to buy Beth some Christmas presents downtown. Black Friday shopping might be a fun adventure." Corrine's voice dripped with anticipation at this new idea.

Amy was still caught up on Corrine's offhand comment dismissing the validity of an artistic representation of the modern context. She had also been planning to go to the Portland Art Museum on black Friday to enjoy the new photography exhibit. It was the region's largest permanent exhibition space dedicated to photography within a museum, and it had just opened a month ago. Amy was a museum member, but had not had a day off to enjoy the new exhibit.

She cleared her throat as she pushed her chair away from the countertop. "I don't think I can go shopping with you tomorrow, Corrine. I already had plans for tomorrow." She picked up her plate and placed it in the kitchen sink. "I think I'm going to head back to my apartment. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Bye, Stuart, Corrine. Beth, give me some snuggles." She wrapped her little niece up in a big hug as she walked towards the door.

"I wish you didn't have to rush out, sweetie," her mom said.
"I've been here all day, Mom. Thanks for cooking dinner. I'll see you later." She hugged each of her family members at the door and passed Beth back to her mom.

She wrapped her warm mustard colored pea coat around herself and headed out to her car.

The next morning Amy was once again wrapping her bright colored coat around her as she prepared for her adventure downtown to the art museum. Her phone rang as she was pulling on her gloves. She let it go to voicemail and heard her out of date answering machine mimic the dull "Speak" of Mark and Roger in Rent. She laughed at the inside joke her sister clearly didn't get.

"What does that even mean, Amy? It's Corinne, by the way. Look, I just wanted to check that you couldn't change your plans for today. I'm going downtown to check out some of the baby boutiques for some gifts for Beth. Stuart is going to stay at home with her, so it'll just be the two of us. I really want you to open up to me. I hate that we've got this gap between us. We're sisters; we should be best friends. Anyways, give me a call back. I'm leaving at two. Bye."

Amy ignored Corrine's value judgment about what their relationship should look like and walked to the MAX station to visit the photography exhibit as planned. She tucked her earbuds in as she settled into the hour long train ride before she had to walk the final quarter mile to the art museum. When the MAX pulled into the Library stop, Amy slung her bag over her shoulder and headed down Park Avenue. It only took her a few minutes to walk the five blocks to the museum entrance, and she was thankful for the warmth that greeted her when she opened the door. Amy handed her museum pass and ID to the shaggy haired clerk who smiled as he returned them with her ticket.

"Enjoy your visit."

"Thanks, I will." Amy made her way from the main entrance directly to the main floor of the Jubitz Center where the new photography collection was. She took nearly two hours winding in and out of the partial walls that jutted out of the long back wall designated for pictures from the last several generations. Her skin tingled at the thought that maybe someday her pictures would hang with these. As she was most familiar with photographing people because of her job, Amy spent more time gazing at the faces framed on the wall. One particular photo of a Native American taken in the late nineteen thirties particularly fascinated Amy. She stepped close to the photo so that her face was only inches from the tiny representation of the man's face and tried to look into his eyes. He was squinting off to the side, and one of his eyes was drooping lower than the other. She took a step back to reevaluate the full picture of his startling hair, styled to stick out six inches off his head, in conjunction with his focused gaze. She stepped closer again to look at the detail on his weathered vest, his deep wrinkled skin, his lips glued in a thoughtful frown. After ten minutes looking at this one photo, Amy moved on to survey the rest of the photography.

She made her way upstairs to the post 1960s art and spent another hour there before moving on to the contemporary art on the top floor. At three she realized she was getting hungry, having spent the last four hours in the museum rather than eating lunch. She made her way back to Park Avenue and walked up to Yamhill before turning east towards the Pioneer Place Mall. She tucked her hands in the pockets of her warm yellow jacket as she marched through the brisk fall air. The ten blocks to the mall was enough distance to turn her cheeks red from the cold. She stayed wrapped in her coat as she made her way to the basement food court.

Christmas shoppers were still jammed into every store. The dedicated Black Friday customers were still going strong late in the afternoon, and Amy was frustrated by the extra bustle. She noticed McDonald's had the shortest line, so she made her way to the counter and ordered a burger. There wasn’t any available seating that Amy could see, so she began to walk back towards the escalator to return to street level. Just after she passed the Gymboree, Amy thought she heard someone call her name. She paused for a moment and heard it again.

"Amy!"

This time she recognized the voice. Amy faltered, not wanting to turn around, but knowing it would be childish to run away from her sister in the crowded mall.

"I know that coat, Amy. I'd know that horrible yellow anywhere." Her sister had walked up behind her. "What are you doing here?"

Amy continued chewing the bite of her hamburger that was in her mouth as she thought of an answer.

Corrine didn't wait for her to finish, "This - this is what you had plans to do today? Eat McDonald's by yourself at the mall? You turned down Christmas shopping for your niece with me for this? A Big Mac? I can't believe you, Amy! I was trying to reach out to you, and you shut me down for a Big Mac. What's wrong with you? Don't you care about family at all? Why won't you be friends with me, Amy? Answer me!" Corrine's tone was menacing, and she looked prepared to use her shopping bags as weapons against her sister if Amy's answers weren't satisfactory.

Amy had finished chewing at this point, but she wished she hadn't swallowed yet. "I, uh, just needed a day to myself. I haven't been shopping without you, I promise. I just needed to get a burger and happened to come in here."

"You couldn't find a McDonald's that satisfied you anywhere closer than half an hour from your apartment?"

"I didn't just come downtown for the McDonald's, Corinne." Amy was irritated with her sister's judgmental accusations.

"Well, then why? Why did you come downtown, Amy? Tell me."

"I haven't been downtown in a while, and I just decided I wanted to spend a few hours out here alone," she replied.

She was unwilling to be completely honest with her sister, and Corinne sensed there was missing information. Tears of frustration formed in Corrine's eyes as she recognized that her little sister was yet again refusing to open up to her. Amy sighed, not wanting to make a scene amongst the Christmas shopping frenzy.

"Corrine, do we really have to do this here? Look, I'm sorry I didn't want to go shopping with you. To be honest, I hate shopping. I didn't come to the mall to shop; I came to find cheap protein to keep my body functioning."

Corrine sniffed, and the tears still threatened to spill from her eyes. "I can't help but take it personally, Amy."

Amy sighed heavily; she couldn't help but take it personally that Corinne hated art. Torn by the decision to hurt Corinne or allow Corinne to hurt her, Amy offered a weak apology.

"I'm sorry, Corinne. I'll see you later."

Without giving her sister a chance to respond, Amy turned and walked away. She hugged the yellow coat close to herself and kept her head down as her sister let the tears finally fall.

"Amy!" She called out and started towards her sister, "Amy, you can't just leave me like that. That's so rude! I can't believe you sometimes. Let's be mature about this. Why can't you tell me what you had to do today?"

"I guess I can't be as mature as you right now, Corinne."

The sarcasm was lost on the self righteous sister. Amy didn't stop as she delivered her response, and Corinne struggled to keep up with Amy's pace. Several shopping bags swayed and smashed next to the sisters as they walked briskly along. Corinne offered a few more frustrated pleas for Amy's confession, but the aspiring photographer refused. By the time they reached the door to the street, Corinne gave up and turned back to finish her shopping. Amy stepped outside and crossed Morrison to wait for the next westbound MAX. As she waited by the platform, Amy noticed a photographer snapping photos of a kissing couple. She smiled in satisfaction, realizing that although her sister would never understand her love of photography, there were at least three other people in the city of Portland who appreciated the art.