This weekend was a bit of a whirlwind. I went up to Chicago on Saturday, picked up my friend Sarah from the airport, checked into our hotel, took a cab into the city, had dinner with another friend, took a cab to Underbar and prepared for the extravaganza that was to be Invasion: Response. Preparation meant having a gin and tonic. It was an invasion, of writers. There was a response–enthusiastic applause and drinking and shouting and otherwise misbehaving. There were burlesque dancers; oh there were burlesque dancers and they were lovely. Sarah Rose Etter read these killer stories. The last story she read, in particular, just cut through me. There was a poet who read so energetically he was practically shouting his words and by the end of his poetry, which was excellent, he was dripping in sweat and needed to take a bit of a rest. Chris Newgent made good use of his arms, as always and also read some poetry with a lisp and then two pieces he has forthcoming from PANK that are elegant and really just unbelievable. Rachel Yoder discussed important rules for writing and unicorns and everyone loves unicorns, don’t they? If you don’t love unicorns, don’t shatter my illusions. Tim “Lady Gaga” Jones-Yelvington wore another festive costume that included enemas as epaulets. His hair was red if you are keeping track and he read some great prose pieces and wore high-heeled boots and sequined disco shorts even though it was, perhaps, -111 degrees outside and quite icy. Respect it.

The reading ended up being just fantastic. It was a very crowded audience and a very appreciative audience so it made for a really fun evening. The Midwest has it going on. I read an essay I started on this blog then developed into something longer that will appear in the debut issue of Flywheel. I was really terrified to read it and vomited twice before it was my turn to take the stage, thus eliminating what had been a very expensive dinner from my system. I should have just tossed $80 down the toilet instead for all the good that meal did me. As I started reading, I realized I was getting laughs which kind of surprised me because I had intended to include wit in the essay but I had not guessed people would find that wit funny enough to laugh. I thought, “Do you not get what I’m talking about here?” It might not be entirely clear but that’s okay because I was super intense in my delivery (mostly because I was SO SCARED) and then after, I thought, “That went well.” I had family in the audience for the first time ever and family was very impressed and I have now proven I am a real writer or something like that. I know my essay was a pretty good piece because Sarah and I went outside for a bit to freeze and suck on Parliaments (it was that kind of night) and when I walked back in the bouncer, this hot, surly tattooed man said, “Roxane, that was a really great essay.” He remembered my name! And liked my writing. I thought, “My work is done here.” I always want to reach the toughest audience.

Sunday morning was rough but we rallied in what Sarah termed the hangover triathlon of getting ready, eating breakfast at iHop and going to IKEA, and getting her to the airport in time to catch her flight. It was so sad to say goodbye. If you weren’t there, you were missed, as you always, always are.

When I got home, the 2nd printing of Normally Special was waiting in front of my door so new orders will ship very soon.

I had a good teaching day today. I was prepared and funny and so on. I feel like I did good work. Work is a useful focus. I like work for the structure it provides. I am a bit of a workaholic. I require the distraction of work. I worked my ass off today.

My students often e-mail me very detailed and elaborate explanations for why they will be missing a class period. On the one hand I appreciate that they take the time to let me know they can’t attend. That’s courteous. They could just not show up as other students are wont to do. Still, sometimes their explanations are so frustrating. I’m not talking about illness or emergency obligations or field trips for extra curricular activities. I do, however, get frustrated when a student is telling me they’re not coming to class because they have so much work for another class or because they have travel arrangements or because they want to attend the county fair back home or they have an appointment to see a new apartment. What these messages tell me is that the student respects me enough to inform me of an absence while also making it clear that my class is an obligation they consider flexible. I should submit excuses to students as to why I haven’t graded their work yet. I was hanging out with a gentleman friend, you see, and he insisted I stop working so we could have quality time. Sorry about that, guys. Did I miss anything important in your homework?

When I was a kid and one of my brothers or I would complain about something and say, “That’s not fair,” my father would calmly respond that life isn’t fair. That always drove me crazy. As an adult, I understand the point he was trying to make. Life is not fair. Shit happens even when you least expect it and there is nothing you can do to stop shit from happening. There seems to be little point to railing against the inevitable or against the way things, simply, are. Still, it is difficult to be told life isn’t fair and it is even more difficult to finally understand the extent to which life is unfair. Is there a more useless but accurate phrase than, “It is what it is?” And yet. It is what it is.

I saw a picture of my niece today where she is wearing a little sunhat and tiny sunglasses and a tiny sundress and she is staring intently at a brightly colored piece of plastic she’s holding in her tiny, dimpled hand. She’s visiting my parents who are losing their minds with grandchild fever.

I was once a pre-med major. I wanted to be a doctor though I didn’t really think through a medical career beyond that. Still, cardiology has always interested me. It is easy to forget the heart is merely a muscle. The heart cannot really break though certainly, it can tear or rip or weaken irreparably. It is easier than you might think to dissect the human heart, to cut it open to better understand how it works, why it failed, why it is broken even though it cannot be broken. First you must remove the heart from beneath the ribcage. If the heart is broken, it will come away easy. If the heart is merely damaged you might have to use a little grit to pry it lose but with patience you will be fine. If the heart is healthy, you’re going to need help but is rare you will come across a healthy heart. Worry not. If a person can live with a broken heart, they can survive with no heart at all, at least for a little while, at least for two years, maybe more or a little less or even 737 days and six hours and fifty two minutes. It might, at this time, also be useful to reflect on the difference between death and not living because there is a difference. Only one requires breathing. Not to sound morbid, but there are more people than you might imagine who are neither living nor dead. There is a word for this but it is Latin and contains many syllables. Place the heart in a dissection pan. It is easier to understand the heart when it is in a contained and finite and sterile space, when it is not wild and warm and covered in blood. The heart will likely be covered in viscera. This is normal. The heart accumulates layers. Rinse the heart with water, preferably distilled but tap will do if there is nothing else. When you consider what the heart can withstand, impure water seems, suddenly, like less of a concern. Pat the heart dry with a clean cloth. Be gentle. Even damaged hearts require care. There is a layer of tissue around the heart. You will need to peel this back. This tissue, too, will come away easy. If this layer is exceptionally thin, simply brush it away with your fingertips, rub what remains into your skin. Identify the front of the heart. Make detailed notations on what you see there–it could be the love for:  a beloved family pet, a favorite grandparent, a Trapper Keeper notebook emblazoned with the image of New Kids on the Block and the college-ruled notebook paper inside on which you wrote awkward notes, the first boy you kissed, the first girl you kissed, the only man you’ve really loved, a perfect little black dress, a meal in Barcelona in sight of the Sagrada Familia, the first black and gray blur of a girl child, a favorite book, that song that speaks to you like no other, staring into the night during thick of summer. Locate the four chambers of the heart. The left atria will be the upper chamber to your right and there you will find a solid ring made of precious metals, the remnants of faith, all the joy you’ve ever known, wound tightly, pulsing. The left ventricle will be the lower chamber to your right; it holds the warm breath of the man you once slept with and the memory of his large hand, protectively, on your stomach and the charming way he danced with you even though he was a terrible, terrible dancer, and how he smiled, wide, easy only with you. The right atria is the upper chamber to your left. In it, digging holes in the empty lot next to your childhood home with your brothers and making a tunnel world and spending long summer days beneath the hot sun, your feet bare in the warm dirt and your mother waiting home for you every day at school, how she sat at the kitchen table with you patiently, taught you important things, and your father who let you stand on his Florsheim shiny black shoes while he walked into the house after a long day at work. The right ventricle is the lower chamber to your left; you will find that it is triangular in shape; it pumps deoxygenated blood from the heart to the lungs. In this chamber lies everything you need to breathe, everything you hold on to as you make your way from one day to the next, everything that makes you strong. We will take up the lungs separately. Using surgical scissors, cut through the side of the pulmonary artery and continue cutting down into the wall of the right ventricle. Be careful to just cut deep enough to go through the wall of the heart chamber. If you cut too deep, you will ruin the heart and that cannot be undone. Push the heart open along the incision. Feel along the webbed patterns of muscular cords along the inner walls, feel how they bind the heart together. Inspect the inner structure. Again, make detailed notes about what you see there—what you have lost, those who have died or left, who are simply gone, what has been done unto you, what you have done. See how that structure is somewhat hollow, tender, angry and red. If the heart is broken, if the heart is violently separated into parts, if it has been subjected to fracture or violated by transgression or if it is not complete or full, and this is very likely, you must put the heart back together. There are no instructions for this but still, you must try. When you are done with your dissection, when you’ve made all your detailed notes, when you have found a way to repare the violent separations and fracture and transgression and emptiness, return the heart to its cage of bone. Be firm but kind. The heart is as weak as it is strong.