Coven
In the storybook
In the dollhouse
In the alcove
By the stairs
Broken fingers
Shattered inkwell
Leaves of paper
Everywhere
Proximity
Standing
As best we can
As the train shifts speed - we brace
Stiffening quickly against the jostles
Brushing softly, arms against bags
Your shoes are
Almost deceptively casual
Oblong, large -
Your pant-cuffs -
Still sharply creased in the early evening
My shoe is tight and pointy
My instep curves towards your toes
Your knees could
Feel the iron
Then appear fresh again
My skirt’s twisted,
Twists again on unsteady tracks
Curled hands, discordant bands
An errant shirt bit creeping out -
Scratched, dark leather belt
With a furtive, sloe-eyed buckle
My elbow – trained on yours, our
Coats brush again on the shuddering train
It’s only cotton and nylon it
Lasted an instant it’s
A crowded train we’re
Trying to stay upright we’re
Worn down at the end of the day
Your shirt-collar has a
Tiny thread escaping from the
Too-tight button - you’ve
Never worn
That shirt
Before
Your eyes I think are
On my hair which
Falls around my chin and
We lurch again - too hard, and my
Foot meets yours I look up
To apologize but my
Mouth is empty and your delicate right hand comes
To my face, strokes my chin, sweeps my locks
Your skin is softer than mine – I think - I
I can not smile, I can not laugh, your
Fingers - wide, gentle nails
Play across my chin, pausing,
Near the corner of my mouth
The train stops.
Our stomachs drop
As the doors part
These pieces of
Our hands touch – the palms
Stay out it’s only knuckles brushing for a moment knuckles
Can not hold, only whisper
“See you tomorrow” I say, wanting to heave or cry
You reply a slow, deafening nod
Which plays in my head until morning.
Mideux
Although the experience of finally seeing myself was disconcerting, I was not all that surprised to note that I/she chose a seat at the table nearest the window. I also would have selected that table, had I not forced myself to sit near the rear of the café, where I could view nearly all the room. Although I hadn’t expected her to sit facing the door, but I couldn’t exactly say why.
Her/my appearance was startling in that I looked almost exactly the way I do now. It was similar to looking at a mirror, as opposed to the foreign creature I’d dreamed of whenever I’d imagined this moment. I’ll have to say, I was disappointed. I had hoped for more interesting hair. Blue, maybe. Or a shorter cut. But, then again, I’ve had short hair and never invested in its upkeep, so I guess the Other Me probably wouldn’t have either. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion I could better afford caring for trendy haircuts than she could. But, again, I couldn’t say exactly why I felt that way.
Did you ever wonder what your life would be like, had you only made different choices? I’m sure everyone does. But, do you have a specific moment in your life upon which you reflect, a moment you point to and know that there, right then, your life split in two? So now there is the You that lives life as you know it, but also the You who chose differently, and exists somewhere else, following the alternate path? You might have a moment like that; I’ve known mine for around decade or so. I have also felt, for years, that somehow someday I’d be able to meet my Other Me.
I realize the thought of an Other Me is a pretty kooky idea. After all, the practicalities of there being two of the same person (more or less) are - well - impractical. Does Me Deux (Mideux?) keep in contact with her/my/our parents? Which of us will get the invites to school reunions? Does Mideux’s credit rating affect mine? What happens if we run across old friends? All sorts of issues arise. So, then, perhaps an easy solution to these problems is to say she is not quite as real as I - more of a ghost in a machine than true flesh and blood. Or perhaps her world is altogether different, and only intersects mine at a very few specific marks.
Nevertheless, I felt - in the back of my mind, in the pit of my gut - she existed and one day, I’d find her.
Our choice revolved around two locations - the general region of home, and another city, in another country, which shall remain nameless. But more than that it revolved around people - or rather, one specific person, versus everything I’d known in my life. In my world, everything else won. In my world, I left. In hers, she stayed. And thus our lives and selves split. I am sure we split because my decision felt so difficult, so momentous, that even today I can recall how close I came to living my life with the prizes behind Door Number Two. I’ve never identified a Right Choice or a Wrong Choice or placed much greater value on one set of outcomes; I simply chose because I had to. Because, in this body, I couldn’t live two lives and remain and depart. So I kissed him goodbye, left, and wept.
I shouldn’t lay my entire choice on the shoulders of one individual, though. It is neither fair nor accurate. I loved more than one person’s body - I loved the language, the folklore, the culture and the thought of starting fresh and new. I loved the thought of independence, yet at the same time dreaded my utter dependence upon one person in a country of foreigners, speaking a guttural tongue I only half-way understood. I feared having to return home in several more months, ashamed and defeated. I feared embracing a new country only to be torn from it, and I feared my glow-y romantic silver dream crashing and drowning me and leaving me lost, far away, alone. And, practically speaking, I also feared the long line of low paying jobs stretching in front of me, a girl handicapped by her poor command of the language and lack of education. In my reality, I knew I was much, much to young and stupid to stay, and returned home with the changing of the seasons. In Mideux’s dream, I was strong, idealistic, hard-working, stubborn and brave, and stuck it out for the cause of Love Conquers All.
The irony of it is, on this day, I finally met myself not far from the general area of home, assuming you consider neighboring states as part of a ‘general region.’ When you measure the world in terms of countries, as I still try to do, a couple hundred miles is a drop in the bucket. So, roughly a decade later, it turned out I hadn’t stayed after all. Which, to be honest, I had expected that too - even before I made my choice, I’d known ‘staying’ hadn’t meant ‘forever.’ Not really, not ‘the rest of my life.’ I hadn’t wanted citizenship, just a chance to stay longer in the dream-world, the fantasy where I was exotic and loved, in a world of exotic, lovely things. That is why, before I made up my mind, I got my tattoo at the ‘xxxx’ market - tiny wings in the center of my back. So, no matter what, I’d have a memento - ink from the heart of that rare city. My own personal icon from my ariose, dream-like days.
I met myself near my grandmother’s house, in the girlhood town of my mother’s mother, a place I’d always enjoyed but had considered too boring in which to actually live. In fact, I don’t live here now, and, I’m pretty sure, neither does she. At least, I can’t imagine her living here - she doesn’t have the look of a local about her. We both know the town well enough, having spent several weeks every year here throughout our child and young adulthoods. It’s always been a town that I run to when I need an escape - it’s only a few hours drive from my home. I thought, if I was to meet her anywhere - it would be here. Here is where I escaped to after returning to the States and finding I wasn’t ready to re-assimilate to my old routine. I ran here (via train, at that time) and holed up for a week in a motel, sleeping and walking and listening to foreign music, telling myself to write down the translations so I’d never forget. I’d search for comfort foods - fine chocolates, honey clove cigarettes, brown bread - but more often than not ended up pouting at a hot-dog, angry at this un-poetic, too American world.
This year, this weekend, marked an important anniversary of The Decision. I came here because there was no where else for me to be. I’d told my husband I needed a weekend alone and he, used to my occasional [damn] mood swings, just asked that I call home at regular intervals. I’d thrown some stuff in my car and run towards here, in this town, at this café - a place so old in this evolving town it had seen fourteen owners in my lifetime and almost twice as many paint jobs. In the past few years had become cool enough to serve exotic teas, yet remained not cool enough so as to be shunned by the under-drinking-age crowd. I loved it here - especially the large bay window in the front, from which you could see down the hill to the river, and glimpse the bluffs to the west. I saw her/myself sitting in that seat now, unpacking an orange messenger bag, fishing out a leather-bound book. Probably a journal. I was glad to see she hadn’t put stickers on or scratched anything into the leather - it was something I would have done in those days but considered it too angsty now. Apparently she agreed. This pleased me, as I wanted her to look exotic and different, but not behave too immaturely. Plus after I’d returned home I spent a few years conserving books at a university library, and now considered any type of defacement a crime.
I bet I sound casual about meeting my Other Self - probably too casual in your opinion. After all, it is not like people see ghosts - glimpses of what Might Have Been - alternates - every day. In a way, the moment was casual - she walked in, she sat down, I watched her. Since this café here in my grandmother’s hometown remains so dear to me, so soothing and warm to my heart, there floats an almost magical air around the scenery. This is the sort of setting where one is just as likely to see a reader with a tarot deck as a mom stopping in for an indulgent, non-carbonated, non-juice-boxed drink. It is a place where worlds collide - where the children of my mother’s childhood friends congregate for book clubs and where some of my cousins spent their high school evenings, and where folks who are strangers to me all seem like family simply because they live in this town. I love the red-brick streets they drive on, and we’ve likely skinned our knees on the same spots in the town park. Our mother’s mothers are buried side-by-side in the same cemetery. For me, this place is both loved and familiar yet completely separate from my daily life, changing in the months (and sometimes years) that pass between my visits. So seeing my Other Self - who was strikingly familiar yet also strange - was not so unexpected here.
The waitress (or, ‘coffee-schlepper’ as I thought of her, for that’s what I called myself when I was one) brought her a menu and did not look twice. She didn’t realize there was a twin in the room. To be fair, an outside observer might not have realized immediately Mideux and I were related, much less the same person. As I stared at her, I counted the differences between us - her hair, although tamer than my expectations, was still a good deal shorter than mine and worn curly, with blonde streaks near her face. My hair was very dark and pulled back into a bun - I had tried somewhat to look not entirely like my normal self today, in anticipation of seeing her and not wanting to be recognized (at first). Although I didn’t expect her to be looking for me as I was for her, I still did not want to hit her with the fact that I had managed to track her down at a point where our realities crossed. I had also chosen an outfit which almost guaranteed my blending into the wall - whereas she wore a bright lime green sweater and oddly embroidered jeans. She also had her nose pierced, and sported a steel blue hoop on the outside of her right nostril. I guessed that her left eyebrow was likely also pierced as I’d wanted that done ever since I could remember, but had foregone the procedure in the name of office work. Her nails seemed to be painted some dark color but were the same length as mine, which also surprised me since I’d just assumed that my Other Me had never felt the need to force the end of our nail-biting habit. I wondered at what point having long pretty nails became important to her. I’d grown mine for my wedding. With that thought, I realized it never occurred to me that she also could be married. I doubted she was.
As far as I could tell, we did not order the same drink. Hers arrived in a tall, clear glass whereas my hands wrapped around a giant, soup-bowl-sized mug. Juice? I wondered. Iced tea? Was she healthier than me, or just not in the mood for an armaretto latte? If we offered each other sips of our drinks, would we like what we tasted? Probably, I concluded. I doubted I’d outgrown my sweet-tooth, or begun favoring wildly different tastes, regardless of my life choices.
Mideux wrote in her leather book, journaling (I surmised). Or, possibly writing a play or a novel. Or - drawing? No, she didn’t appear to sketch anything. I am a pathetic visual artist, but who knew what classes she had taken, what she had learned. Hmmm - perhaps she was completing homework, I thought. She could very well be finishing her education right now. Every once in awhile Mideux glanced out the window, as though distracted by a shadow or flicker of light. I noticed she wrote very quickly, her hand tracing small, loopy characters. Shorthand? Printing? Mathematics?
As I grew accustomed to viewing her - slouching, sucking her lip in too far, revealing our sad, crooked overbite - I realized looking at her alone could not tell the story of the past ten (or so) years. Her clothes didn’t mention if she’d been skydiving (I had), or if she’d ever been seriously ill. No name was tattooed on the back of her hand proclaiming her latest love. How long had she stayed overseas? What art had she seen up close that I had only turned past in books? Did she have any music she could recommend? Did she have children (yikes )? What if she was radically different in ways I couldn’t clearly see - what if she’d been victimized, or was missing a leg? I wanted to rush across the room, embrace her, and ask if she was all right. I wanted to rip her journal out of her hands, and devour every single word.
I froze for a moment, on an inhale, and tightened my legs in preparation for rising from my chair. The thought of approaching her made my heart flutter. I told myself not to be nervous. After all, I wasn’t thinking about approaching a stranger; I would be approaching me.
I must have gasped, or made a sound, or something, for at that precise moment she turned and looked at me. Her eyes locked on mine. My hand flew to my face - sunglasses! I’d removed my sunglasses! I had meant to leave either them or my reading glasses on - as a part of my disguise. But now she was staring right into me, making contact with one of my most recognizable features. Surely she would realize who she was looking at. What should I do?
I hovered in her stare, trying to read her reaction to seeing me. Her face, backlit and shadowed, gave nothing. I thought I saw - something - recognition? Curiosity? No - more like - hostility? No, annoyance. She was perturbed. With me. With my appearance? No - I realized - she was annoyed because I had been staring at her.
In an attempt to cover my rudeness, I smiled.
She fluttered, half-smiled, and quickly lowered her eyes. It was a mannerism I myself had performed tens if not hundreds of times. She was embarrassed. I did not know if she recognized me.
With the awkward moment broken, my first instinct was to hide. Realizing that would result in my kicking myself for missing this opportunity for at least the rest of my life, it hit me that I now had no choice but to talk to her. Or rather, to me. She had become sensitized to my staring, so continued observation was not a reasonable option. Plus, I wanted to talk to her. I believe she also wanted to talk to me, or at least she would, once she realized who I was.
At the exact moment I stood up from my seat, her cell phone rang. As she fumbled to answer it, I hurriedly sat back down. She glanced in my direction, catching me staring again. Unsure of what to do, I mistook her glance for an invitation and jumped up again. However, she was already turning towards the window, falling into the start of her phone conversation. I felt utterly stupid, and as though I was quickly losing hold of whatever control I had on the situation. I forced myself to walk slowly, purposefully, head-held-high towards her. In no time at all, I stood near her table.
Expressionless, her reflection in the window looked at mine.
Gingerly, I lowered myself into the chair across from her.
She continued talking on the phone, not acknowledging me. Although I was curious about who I/she was talking to, I felt like an intruder - which, I suppose, in a way, I was. But - I felt too stunned to really listed anyway. I realized my breath came as though I had been climbing much too high of a hill; I could barely follow her cadence. Perhaps my attitude towards this rendezvous was not so casual after all. Unable to absorb her speech, I tried to absorb her hand - gaping at it resting on the table before me. Her right hand, not the hand of wedding rings, but of ink smudges and, like its mirror, darkly painted nails (navy blue). Her index finger was less deformed than mine, I assumed, unlike me, she’d never re-broken hers in a car door.
Her right hand.
My right hand.
I knew our fingerprints were identical, establishing our unique yet shared self. But I could hardly tell anything about my own life from my own hand, let alone read part of a life’s worth of information from hers. We had pale, long fingered, long nailed hands. Nearly as delicate as the hands of folk monsters from wood-carvings in that other country. Hands well suited to play the piano, (though our ears, well, certainly my ears, were not). She had a scar across her pinkie knuckle, tiny and delicate. I wished I had the same scar - even the same nail polish, and a less crooked finger, so our hands would be identical.
I let my eyes travel from her hand up to her face, looking at her familiar soft jaw line, her lips sporting a color I might have owned at one time before I realized how utterly clown-like I looked in it. I noted her freckles were more pronounced than mine, as if she’d recently spent several days in bright sun. She turned slightly away from the window and I looked into her eyes, her vibrant, burning green eyes, one of our most recognizable features.
Oh my god,
her green eyes.
My eyes are blue. Midnight blue. As blue as the sky. I’ve been told once or twice, in really strange lighting, that my eyes have a aqua-ish tinge but never emerald. Not the green of a field after a rain. Not like her eyes, which were distinctly, completely, different than mine.
I blinked. Several times. Her eyes stayed green. I tilted my head from one side to the other, but her eye color did not change. It was everything I could do to not reach out and grab her eyelid and try to feel her eyeball, as if I could change what I was seeing by holding it. How in the world could her eyes, my eyes, be green?
What was going on?
I scanned the rest of her face - her profile now, she’d turned back to the window - looking for differences. I examined what I could see of her right ear. I couldn’t tell if it was pierced. Mine are pierced - they were pierced before I ever left the country. It had to be pierced. But I couldn’t tell. I looked over her hair, but realized the futility of that action - my hair had changed color so many times all I recalled of the original was “some shade of reddish brown.” Assuming she’d streaked the front of her hair blonde instead of dying everything else brown, her hair fit the bill.
Her sweater covered most of her neck, so I couldn’t see if she also had a mole on her collar bone. I listened to her voice - was it higher than mine? Maybe, but that could be the difference of hearing her through the air vs through my skull. I have an non-distinct voice - I thought we sounded the same. Similar enough, anyway. Even to my tin ear.
I realized, overall, she was slightly rounder than I was. Slightly. No more than 10 pounds or so. My body rarely changes weight - up or down. It’s something I’ve learned to live with and depend on. She was only a little heavier - was this significant? Were we the same height? I thought so. It was impossible to tell sitting down. She’d seemed my height when she walked in - could she be wearing heels?
I started to lean over so as to look under the table, then realized that action could be misconstrued. Maybe I could pretend to drop something; I searched the table for a small object - a fork, a napkin, her pen - could I grab her pen and throw it on the floor without seeming too suspicious? I had to know if she was wearing heels, I had to. I had to look at her feet. I could start with her feet and work my way up, establishing her identity body part by body part. I was not wearing heels. If she also was not, we would be the same height. I eyed her pen - maybe if I moved very quickly . . . .
“Can I help you?” the coffee schlepper materialized at our table, carafe in hand. “Would you like me to move your drink over here so you can sit with your friend?” she asked.
I gaped like a goldfish. Although I recognized the words, I had no idea what she’d just asked. There was much too long a pause. ‘Help me,’ my brain squeaked.
Mideux covered her phone with her un-re-broken-fingered hand, “No thank you, I’m fine,” she said.
“Okay,” the schlepper replied, giving me one more look before returning to the counter. Mentally I kicked myself, feeling like a fool. ‘Hey,’ I thought about shouting, ‘do we look alike to you?’ She’d called us friends - couldn’t she tell we were supposed to be the same person?
I looked again at Mideux. She was now also looking at me. I stared at her nose - was it flatter than mine? Maybe. It was difficult to say. I’ve never been skilled at noticing details - it took me well over a year to realize my husband’s face was crooked. I re-examined her eyes - they hadn’t changed color. Still green - greener than mine would ever be. I noticed her left eyebrow was not pierced. That struck me as odd - I’d always wanted to pierce that brow.
She spoke as though finishing her conversation. I was desperate to talk to her - to ask what she called herself, where she was from - how she’d enjoyed her life. But I also dreaded having to explain myself to her. Strangely, in all my dreams of this moment - I’d never imagined how odd it could be, trying to talk to my Other Self (if she was my Other Self). I’d always envisioned us catching sight of each other and - knowing - who the other was without our exchanging words. I felt surely we’d find each other’s wavelength without any awkward mess. (Maybe she wasn’t me ).
I thought of an old pick-up line - “do I know you from somewhere?” Perhaps I’d begin my explanation that way. I felt vaguely sick to my stomach, as though I’d gotten myself into a mess I could not find my way out from.
My mind’s eye flashed to my husband, back at home. If anyone asked where I was, what would he say? How would he explain my desire to just disappear for a weekend? Should I ever try to explain why to him?
“I went to find my other self,” I’d say. “Yes, I thought she was a real person. I thought we could meet for coffee.”
I felt, if I could only get Mideux to talk to me, to directly acknowledge me, to tell me anything about herself, all the world would shift back into perspective. If we could just communicate, I’d stop feeling foolish. She had to be me, oh please, she just had to. Somehow, my pride now depended on it.
“I have to go,” she said, snapping her phone shut.
“DoIknowyoufromsomewhere?” I blurted, as though throwing my words as far away from myself as I could. I took a deep breath and swallowed. This was not going well. I felt angry with myself for my pathetic composure.
Mideux waved her phone at me, as though it were something I should read. “He’s sick,” she said. I assumed she meant whoever had been on the other end of the call. “I have a long drive so I’d better get going.” She picked up her bag.
“Okay,” I said casually, as though we were friends finishing an afternoon conversation. Satisfied with my attempt at sounding normal, I decided to speak again. But she beat me to it.
“He’ll be okay - it’s nothing serious.” She carefully closed her book. “This is a little thing he’s had his whole life.”
‘Whose whole life?’ I wondered. Who was she talking about? I couldn’t think of anyone I knew with lifelong illnesses. I was wasting time - she was rising to leave, and I hadn’t said anything important to her yet. I couldn’t think of what to do; my brain was scrambled eggs. I’d come all this way, thought of her - or, I should say, the idea of who she could be - for a decade or so. And now, with one vibrant emerald glance, she’d struck me dumb. I felt lost and alone. But I couldn’t let her go. But there was nothing I could do.
As she slung her bag over her shoulder, she looked at me again with her foreign eyes. She knit her brow, as though confused by the presence of a stranger at her table. She drew upon a reservoir of good manners and said “Well, goodbye,” turning to go. In two steps she had passed me, in four she was at the door.
“Your eyes,” I half yelled, stopping her in the doorway. She flashed them at me one final time. And at that point the color of her eyes, the hardened, alien expression on her face made me realize - she was not me. She just simply was not. I had been wrong.
“I - like - your - eyes.” I said. She was not me. Notmenotmenotmenotme. Not me. Someone else.
I half smiled at the woman in the doorway. This day - this place - my dream. I felt as though I was drowning. I had been staring at a stranger. That’s okay, I thought. I was okay with that.
She wore a quizzical look. “Fälschung,” she sniffed. Then grinned, opened the door, and stepped into the magical air that floated around the scenery of her grandmother’s hometown.
The End
Not pg
Following is something I am working on for a performance festival. This is draft 1 1/2 (approx). It will get somewhat edited probably (howz that for a statament of committment). I am going to try and bury this one a little so no one gets offended because, while parts are fact, other parts are fiction.
Title is 'Not Pregnant'
Most of the script is performed in voice over
Some women, when they reach a certain age – whether they are single, married, or in a committed relationship, become aware of a certain time piece they are told they carry within their bodies – their biological clock. A woman might realize all on her own that her clock is, as the saying goes, ticking, and she only has X number of years left to successfully and uncomplicatedly breed. Or, this fact may be brought to her attention by someone else – be it a well-meaning friend:
Friend – “My daughter’s birth was the happiest moment of my life!!!! I am so glad I didn’t wait to become a mother!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Or a not-too-subtle parent:
Parent: “Well, Fifi the cat is all I have to spend my time on – seeing as I’m not a grandmother”
An even less subtle in-law:
In-law: “you know, little Jordan could really use some cousins from this side of the family”
Or even a disinterested third party:
Doctor: “You know, at your age continued use of birth control can lead to delayed fertility. If you’re going to have children you should be aware the longer to wait to conceive, the longer it takes to conceive.”
And suddenly women, who have spent much of their lives trying to be noticed for something other than their boobs, start wishing everyone would just stop focusing on a part of their bodies no one can see. Why do so many people care about someone else’s so-called biological clock?
My three girlfriends and I, all childless, were discussing this one day over brunch. The conversation started because Savannah, aged 35 and proudly single, had heard two women sitting at a nearby table comment to each other after Savannah ordered a double mimosa at 11:00 AM.
Woman 1: “My god! Do you remember drinking alcohol for breakfast?”
Woman 2: “Do I ever! I couldn’t imagine doing such an unhealthy thing now! Especially not while breastfeeding!”
Woman 1: “Poor thing probably doesn’t even have children.”
Savannah, a clothing designer who considered motherhood a disability, had responded by very pointedly changing her order from a mimosa to a martini.
Savannah: (archly) “Actually, make that a martini, please.”
Meredith, our type-A friend who worked 16 hour days at a well known law firm, said she couldn’t imagine even thinking about motherhood for at least another couple years – certainly not until she made Partner at her firm. Although her mother-in-law was getting on her nerves with her constant hinting.
Meredith: “I couldn’t imagine being a mom right now. I’m still trying to be made partner! If Stu’s mom asks ‘when are you two going to start having kids’ one more time I’ll probably deck the old bird.”
Catherine, who had grown up dreaming of a large house with a white picket fence, a perfect husband and four children – and who had achieved three out of these four desires - voiced a slightly different opinion.
Catherine: “I don’t know why you two are so negative! Motherhood is great! It’s even fashionable now – look at Britney Spears and Jennifer Garner. And I heard Jennifer Lopez is taking fertility drugs so she can have a baby. Babies are the new teacup Chihuahuas.”
All of which made me wonder – what really is so great about motherhood? And, more importantly, when did it become so important to breed?
Clairie: “What I want to know is, when did it become okay to look down on us who aren’t parents? Ten years ago our older sisters were stuck with convincing the world that it was okay to be single and over 30. Now every time you turn around there’s another book or TV show about the fabulous lives of single women, sleeping with guys left and right, living in the coolest places on earth. But now, if you are married, you still hear “biological clock this, motherhood that” – it’s like once you stop being single if you don’t pop out a kid and then promptly start raving about how ecstatically happy you are you’re some kind of freak.”
Savannah pointed out she was happy being single.
Savannah: “Clairie, some of us like being single. Cheers.”
But Meredith saw my point.
Meredith: “You know what’s even worse? All those commercials! ‘A baby changes your whole life.’ Ads of perfect families: selling cars, selling condos, selling vacations - even for retirement planning! Excuse me, but when did it become selfish to keep a bank account just for myself? I wonder how it makes women feel who have tried to have kids but can’t.”
Catherine: “It makes you feel awful, okay?”
[Silence]
I forgot to mention, Catherine had had a miscarriage about a year ago. As the only one of us who actually showed an active interest in having kids, it did seem kind of a cruel twist of fate.
Catherine: “It makes you feel like this huge failure! Like you can’t even do something basic like be pregnant. Like everybody feels sorry for you, or like you did something wrong.”
Sometimes, none of us are really sure what to say to Catherine about it either.
Meredith: “Oh sweetie – you can’t worry about stuff like that – no one thinks you did anything wrong.”
Catherine: “But I must have! And now it’s been six months I’ve been trying to get pregnant again and I can’t!”
Savannah: “You’re probably stressing about it too much. Just relax.”
Before Catherine could protest that it was impossible for her to relax when this meant so much to her, I decided to jump in.
Clairie: “Look – that is a point, though. Babies do seem like an accessory everyone expects you to have. Today if you tell a woman she needs to get married you can expect a stoning. Why is it still okay to tell a woman she needs to get pregnant? Even maternity wear is suddenly high fashion – you hear women bragging about their eighty dollar third trimester shirts.”
As soon as I said that, fashion designer Savannah got a gleam in her eye that meant she had just thought of something unique, something subversive and, if she got her way, something destined to go into her next show.
Savannah: “You know, that gives me a brilliant idea for my fall line. . . “
Any fashion mag could tell you Savannah is known for her edgy sense of style, and her strong countercultural influences.
Savannah: “I’ve got it. My next collection is going to feature a brand new line – I’ll call it ‘Not Pregnant.’ There can be ti-shirts with X’s across your navel instead of those stupid empire waists.”
We might have thought she was crazy, but Savannah was on a roll.
Savannah: “And there will be miniskirts that say . . . “
I think Meredith was about to point out that miniskirts usually did not ‘say’ anything, when Savannah came up with . . .
Savannah: “That say: ‘Not taking reservations at this time.’ Right across your uterus.”
I thought she was nuts. But with Savannah, sometimes there can be no stopping her. She continued, musing ‘This is great! And something I would even wear myself! And there could be shirts that read . .’ When Catherine exclaimed:
Catherine: “It’s not great! It’s horrible! Who’s going to advertise they’re not pregnant? What’s the point?”
‘The point is, my dear,’ Savannah said, ‘It’s not only that you’re saying you’re not pregnant. You’re saying there is nothing wrong with not being pregnant. Think of those women you were complaining about – the ones who make you feel like you’re not a real woman because you don’t have a child. The ones who’ she cast a pointed look over to the two women at the next table, ‘try to make you feel guilty for having a martini at 11:00 AM. Think about telling those women they’re no better than you. And doing so fashionably, wearing a stretch cotton fitted ¾ sleeve ti proclaiming you are ‘Empty, but Fulfilled.’
Catherine gets a mischievous look on her face, and you can tell she likes the idea.
Catherine: “‘Empty’ – huh? I don’t know about ‘empty’ but – I guess I kind of like that.”
I had to admit – as someone who planned on eating for one for at least the next several years - I kind of liked it too.
Meredith: “Careful – you might start an abstinence movement while you’re at it.”
Savannah, who had considered herself sexually liberated since her sophomore year of high school, shuddered at the idea.
Savannah: shuddering “The hell I will. But you watch – 6 months from now, everyone will want one of these. You’ll see.”
And, I had to admit, 6 months later I was wearing one of Savannah’s shirts. I had purposely chosen it to wear to a meeting I had in the park. It was a bright, sunny day – one of the last glorious fall days of the season – which meant that parents were destined to flood the park with their strollers and child-seated bikes. I was meeting a friend of mine for a half-hour before her daughter’s play group started. A friend I had barely seen over the past year, and who had hardly uttered a word about anything other than her daughter, her daughter’s toys, her daughter’s diapers, breastfeeding her daughter, and the brilliant new life she had discovered since her daughter had been born, and how selfish and unfulfilling her previously child-free life now seemed. A friend who took every opportunity to offer me tips for trying to conceive, in case I wanted them.
This part is spoken along with the tape. I wore my shirt for several reasons. For one, it was new, and fit me perfectly. I was also sick of seeing pregnant starlets all over the gossip pages, proclaiming they were happily giving up their million dollar careers to dedicate themselves full-time to raising their children they were creatively naming after fruit or foreign cities. I was also wearing it because a part of me was very angry that women like Catherine, clever, successful, funny women, could be made to feel bad about themselves simply because they hadn’t had a baby. And a very selfish part of me wore the shirt because I wanted my friend to know that I didn’t especially feel like hearing about the best time of the month to conceive today. That even though my womb was empty, I was fulfilled. Clairie reveals shirt – reads Empty but Fulfilled (or an X’s ti shirt) and has a ‘Not Pregnant’ logo.
Clairie: “It’s not that I hate children. It’s not that I don’t want to have children someday. It’s not at all that I’m against parenthood. It’s that I’m against someone else thinking they have any right placing their values on me. So, here I am – not pregnant – and fabulously fulfilled. And I don’t care who knows it.”
Blackout
- acr
Aura
A section of wallpaper
Jumped off its home above the door frame
Clinging to your hand.
The walls folded inward
While my skin dripped down your arms.
Fingers found a mouth -
Found a mouth -
Eyes closed, the blackness violently rolled.
Eyes open,
The hanging light above the bed
Offered a flimsy, dated anchor.
Water foiled the calm,
Soiled the floor,
Scared the pets -
Blackness around our fleeting address.
One aura
Sewn together.
Combusting.
A particular kind of death (a villanelle)
"The saddest hour," a dramatic sigh –
“Why oh why didn’t we listen?”
Gasp your last, close your eyes.
Altar your life, and neatly write
‘Please scatter my ashes to the wind.’
"The saddest hour," a dramatic sigh.
Your actions seek to justify.
A poignant scrawl, your favorite pen.
Gasp your last, close your eyes.
Bells toll under a grey sky -
A romantic touch your tragic end -
"The saddest hour," a dramatic sigh.
I really ought to mourn, and sigh.
This cuts deep, this final sin.
Gasp your last, close your eyes.
But instead of wearing reeds dear, I
Think I'll lie with more lively men.
"The saddest hour," a dramatic sigh.
Gasp your last, close your eyes.
- 12/26/2003
excerpts
i see now you'll never love me
through the beautiful clouds of the lie
but this time the end doesn't matter
i don't need to forsee how we die
stop dancing; my breath's at a loss.
i loved you i loved you i loved you
like a vine whose stake has been felled
your wintery devotion bit through me
though my anger could always be quelled
by the thought that our mornings were no one's
and the run of the forest was mine.
my love, your love shall be resting
she's stopped creeping and welcomes the night
i'll be sitting in my favorite corner
as you lie down to sleep by the fire
take this love - and build it a funeral pyre.
entranced, i'll watch you breathing
as sleep has its way with your form
pinching your musk covered candle
drawing itself towards the door
my 'i love yous' hanging like roses
muted with the loss of the sun
bind my limbs - my searching is done.