Life in the Coderre Household

My dad is in London so there it is his birthday!

Happy 40th Padre!

In approximately 6 days my mother will also be turning forty. For her fourtieth birthday she will be going to Florida with her three friends from her childhood. The four of them grew up on Hagen Lane in Flossmoor. One of the four grew up to become a millionaire investment banker. She owns a condo on the ocean, which is where they will be staying in two weeks for a weekend. In the end, my mother will be gone for a weekend. This means that the house will be a complete disaster, my dad will most likely lock himself in his room with his laptop and watch sportscenter on his new TV that we got him for his birthday, and I will be left to care for the crap loads of random Coderre children that will be running through the house. At least Mel can help…oh nevermind… she has a social life.





*Intro to World of Chemistry videos*

Roald Hoffman is my hero. He is not only a chemist but also a writer, poet, Holocaust survivor, lecturer, and much much more. ( and he’s in the World of Chemistry videos )

Anyway, I decided to read some of his poetry. So you all can enjoy I will post my favorites here:






by Roald Hoffman

It has something to do

with looking down the blouse

of the girl painting the boat, tracing

in a second the curve, wanting

to slip a hand between cotton

and her warm skin.

Or seeing a glint of sun

off the window opening across

the bay, calculating the speed

with which the reflection

skims across water.

The girl runs her hand

through her hair, the immemorial

action, this time arrested

as she spots the hummingbird

taking its hovering time

to sample each larkspur blossom.

Or the oil storage tanks

across the water, seeing

them ignite,

silently, the shrapnel

already on its way here.



Cantilevered methyl groups,

battered in endless anharmonic motion.

A molecule swims,

dispersing its functionality,

scattering its reactive centers.

Not every collision,

not every punctilious trajectory

by which billiard-ball complexes

arrive at their calculable meeting places

leads to reaction.

Most encounters end in

a harmless sideways swipe.

An exchange of momentum,

a mere deflection.

And so it is for us.

The hard knock must be just right.

The eyes need lock, and

glimmers of intent penetrate.

The setting counts.

A soft brush of mohair

or touch of hand.

A perfumed breeze.

Men (and women) are not

as different from molecules

as they think.




It is said in the Talmud that the child in the womb,

flexing her floating sac of the world, knows all, knows

the name of the angel who wrestled with Jacob, knows

and dreams, dreams all molecules her hands will make,

bowties of atoms centered by platinum, carboxypeptidase.

She remembers the constellations’ pause as Abraham

held the knife over Isaac, and later, Dachau trains.

Reaching, through her mother’s eyes, she blows life

into weeds and carbon chains from comets’ tails;

and marks the lust, just that, of her father in her

conception. In volutes of gene threads and shells,

what a time to know! And then . . . a time to be born.

As she is pushed into the colder world, an angel

strikes her on the head, and makes her forget all

she knew inside. The mark of the angel is on our lip.


Why does the angel do this? Today they don’t announce

themselves, these wheels of God, and, if questioned,

they say: I’m just following orders. Is he Ialdabaoth,

the workman demiurge, who without a host of technicians

and genetic engineering knew, just knew, how to mold

muscle, sheathe a nerve, the nitty-gritty, bone fitting

into bone, of creation? No one’s left to believe in him.

So Ialdabaoth, unemployed by this sexy human trick

of procreation, strikes out at children. Or maybe

it’s Yahweh, not my Hebrew one Lord, but his dark Gnostic

mask. He keeps men from unhusking the fallen sparks within,

knowing the blue sky that is also the sea of their spirit.


3 Rabbi Baruch of Mezbizh explained it thus: If

the child were not made to forget, she would brood

on her death, the count of years and seconds left

audible like a repeater of death in her mind.

Contemplating her death she would not light candles,

or build a house. So the angel makes her forget.


But I think God, who knows, doubts (which is to know)

his design works. His winged observer marks the

onset of contractions, hydraulics of the amniotic

fluid. The angel is drawn into timing, hears

breathing, hoarser, instructed. He touches, an angel’s

touch, the dilating neck of the womb. The child’s

head is pushed against her own breast, the occiput

leads, rotates into the pelvic floor until bones

won’t give, forcing the head to turn, shaping

a conformation that angles up; all this takes time

even if it is not a first birth. As the head emerges,

a thin shoulder slides into the place of resistance;

more pain, a push turning the face into the mother’s

thigh. Confronted with this congruence of form and motion,

the angel is the one struck dumb, forgets, must attend

every birth. The mother stirs, unprompted, to the after-

birth; the daughter, like a seal coming up from its deep

dive, depressurizes, gasps for this unforgettable air.



haha stretch marks




so… there’s this guy i know… and i have decided to dedicate this post to him…

Remember that one time when…

we stayed up till four o’ clock in the morning talking on the phone during a thunderstorm

we tried to get your mom to let you sleepover at my house

we had a waterfight

we tried to get into a rated R movie but they wouldn’t let us

we played video games and I killed myself with a grenade

we went to the caboose and your stepdad yelled out of the window

we watched saving private ryan

we went to Aly’s house

and she wouldn’t let you play her brother’s video games 

I put on your clothes

your sister thought I was/am a lesbian

oh and her boyfriend

oh and your mom

haha good times…



so I haven’t updated in forever but I decided that in the spirit of a four day weekend, I would…

So I went to Tori’s house for an ethnic foods party thing and I made tiropitas(these Greek cheese triangles) and I spent three and a half hours making them but it was worth it cuz they rocked. So at Tori’s house it was all girls and Julian haha Julian. He didn’t seem to mind… at all. and we ate tons of food. and I don’t think I have eaten that much since like the night before but whatever. and I dressed up as a gangsta PimP named LuLu cuz I’m just that cool. and Rachel took lesbian pictures of Krissy and me. so ya it was pretty funny. the end.


three and a half day weekend was nice but the finals sucked… i saw rumor has it again, watched high school musical on disney, called caroline a penis, celebrated my popsie’s 70th birthday, and watched desperate houswives after running home in the snow…


the weekend was good- played videogames and killed myself with a grenade haha, went to see narnia and it was fun, played soccer and we beat andrew and their mean nasty coach who insulted mi padre… just the usual… i dont want to go back to school…

i hate finals


my sibs are officially obsessed with Liz. Great, another one of my friends i can add to their “list of idols”*. woo hoo.


*”list of idols” (aka a list of my friends they adore) actually exists, this is not a lie, i know it is creepy i should burn it.

xanga revisited