The boy and I finally took the couch plunge in Vancouver, settling on a brown sectional great for reading, playing video games, and aggressive napping. After six months in Boulder and four years in Japan, Vancouver was home; maybe not permanently but at least for a good while; definitely long enough to buy a couch.

That was, until Darwin Deez rolled through Vancouver. They arrived in a mini-van equipped with a VHS player, blazed through an awesome set at The Media Club, and blazed a bit more back at our apartment. Less than 24 hours later the band, and the VHS player, headed south to Seattle, but the damage had been done. The boy, who for the last five years had adamantly refused to live in the States, promptly announced he could live in New York City. And when the boy makes up his mind, the boy makes up his mind. A little over four weeks later a couple of stoned movers wrapped up the couch in ten rolls of cling-wrap, and we headed to the airport for a day of traveling and migraine-inducing margaritas.

The couch, of course, came with us. Maybe it means New York will be our home for a good while, or maybe it just means we really like the couch. Maybe it’s both or neither, but there is something about New York that heightens the writing itch, and after a year of relative silence I am once again writing, from the comfort of the brown couch.

1. A brief history of my couches after Oberlin: Chapel Hill – a hand-me-down from my grandmother; Boulder – a futon frame & mattress; Japan – a couch cobbled together from a bed frame and covered with pillows.

Mal loved the camera from day one.

We turned the heaters on and sweated out the first couple of days, making sure she had sufficient heat and warm sleeping spots. We moved our blankets into the office and slept on the floor. She would curl up on our chests, in my hair, or by our sides and sleep the sleep of babies. She also pooped a lot, and the apartment soon had strategically placed toilet paper rolls in every room. Laundry was done twice a day, and floors washed every other day.

After the first week the heaters were put away and Mal began to wander the apartment on her own. She would sleep at our feet while we worked at the computer, and learned that the refrigerator held all the goodies. Her meals were prepared with care, supplemented with baby greens, boiled eggs, and tomatoes. Some days it seemed she ate better than we did. A nabe pot² was filled with water for her to splash around in, and the blankets were returned to the bedroom.

Seriously, she loved the camera. Every time I had it out, she’d come running.

Her feathers started to come in, and the fluff out, which filled our apartment with impossible tufts of light down. We purchased a vacuum cleaner since the detritus couldn’t be swept, and Mal began sleeping in our bed (on top of numerous towels). Eventually she was big enough to jump up on her own, always happy with the accomplishment and chirping with joy. She could sense when it was bedtime, clued in by the pre-bed rituals of face washing and teeth brushing, and sometimes would beat us to bed. A couple of times she hid in the sheets, causing a few frantic minutes of searching before giving away her position with a little chirrup. She never liked to be alone, so trips to the bathroom had to be done with the door open so she could follow. Her voice started to change, and she started taking baths in the tub, instead of the stew pot.

The feathers have arrived!

She grew big, and a bit fat, thanks to our doting and attention. Her roundness caused her to sprawl when she sat on the floor, legs splayed out behind her, wings loose and relaxed. Baths became more frequent once we deciphered her actions, the bobbing and dipping while running in circles, indicating a desire for some tub action. We bought toys and knick-knacks to hold her interest while we were away (the toilet room³ doubled as a duck playpen). We talked to her and she talked to us, and I like to imagine she understood. Her cuteness gave way to a sleeker look, though you could still see mischief in her eyes.

Mal back at the farm, taking a dip in the pond.

Eventually she was old enough to return to the farm, to become a duck with people friends, having forgotten she was born a chicken. It was incredibly hard to take her back, heart wrenching to leave her in new surroundings without the cushy trappings of apartment life. She is now more duck and less human, but recognizes the boy and I and comes running when we visit (the boy sees her everyday, I see her about once a week). She tugs on our sleeves hoping to get some tomato, ruffles our hair, and gives me duck kisses⁴. She is a bizarre creature, but one that is loved dearly.

{ fin }

1. For the first four months or so we thought she was a he, and the pronoun change took some adjustment.
2. I would like to emphasize that it was *only* the pot, the heating apparatus remained in the cupboard.
3. In Japan, there is one room for the toilet, and another for the bath and shower. If you ask a Japanese person for directions to the bathroom, you will undoubtedly wind up in room without a toilet.
4. Little duck nibbles on my lips… it sounds gross but it’s really cute.

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The group defines the term ‘littérature potentielle’ as (rough translation): “the seeking of new structures and patterns which may be used by writers in any way they enjoy”.

Constraints are used as a means of triggering ideas and inspiration, most notably Perec’s “story-making machine” which he used in the construction of Life: A User’s Manual. As well as established techniques, such as lipograms (Perec’s novel A Void) and palindromes, the group devises new techniques, often based on mathematical problems such as the Knight’s Tour of the chess-board and permutations.