Detroit Basketball

My beloved Pistons lost last night in the third game of the play-offs with Cleveland. Not a big deal, though, they always have problems with the third game. They're so beautiful and brilliant as a team that one cannot help but adore them. And they're still up, 2 to 1.

I have always loved the underdog, since the day I was born. The first poem I remember reading was in the first grade and was illustrated with basketball players. The chorus stanza read something to the effect of -- If first you don't succeed, try, try again. I clung to those words because I wasn't a natural at anything. I wasn't an athlete -- in grade school, my gym teacher put me on the same position as the boy who had both legs in massive braces because of a crippling disease. When we picked sides for teams, I didn't get chosen until the very end, when it was down to me and a very large girl (she looked 30 by age 14) named Toni who smoked and ended up pregnant by her uncle in the eighth grade. I didn't do well at math (just like that one Barbie doll -- Math is hard!) I wasn't anybody's favorite. I was me and that wasn't fun. Boys weren't madly in love with me. I was too smart to be pretty. And not smart enough to play dumb. These days, people are fond of saying, It is what it is. So it would seem. Nonetheless, losing, well, it sucks, but it matters. I am good at losing and find the value in it. Always will. Although the Detroit Pistons don't lose often, when they do, I yell a lot and make a pouty face. And wait for the next game.

Michelle's Spell of the Day

"Let nothing disturb you. Let there be peace. God is all." St. Theresa of the Little Flower

Watch the Sopranos Tonight! That's my spell! Drink whatever your beady little heart desires!

Benedictions and Maledictions

First published in Nerve Cowboy

Late Afternoon in the Dementia Clinic

This could be anywhere for most of the people here –
the house where they grew up, their honeymoon, the first
day of work. Except it’s not. The workers count down
the sticky school day minutes before they escape
into slightly less predictable monotonies. As for me,
my husband has chosen this time to move his stuff out
of our house so I’m killing time by visiting a friend
before I can return to my gutted rooms and try and forget
what was once there. My friend plays Keno with two of the high-
functioning patients. I don’t know the object of this game so she
tells me that you roll the die and the person who gets the closest
to six wins the round. "Try it," she says. I shake my head.
"Come on. He’s lost almost every time, but he’s still playing."
I take the die and roll, but don’t come close. When it is time
for the next person to try, he takes the die and blows
on it for luck, then waits for someone to tell him how things turned out.