Light up like Spenkalink
My sisters and I have convinced ourselves that at least half of our parents are gifted with a mild brain-stem disorder. This, we feel, accounts for their inability to recognize many social norms, let alone conform to them. ‘Disorder,’ we believe, is a term strong enough to associate with most of our memories involving our parents and public. The word reeks of clinical oddness; while other children may refer to their parents’ behavior as ‘weird,’ our parents are in a spectrum beyond weird. They are disordered.
My mother liked to use clichés or repetitive phrases to describe her life, as though using common language would provide her with normalcy. Occasionally, she put a great deal of effort into blending in, but in doing so she reminded me of a cat swatting at a yarn dangled overhead. No matter how much she tried, she was never going to be able to grab on to the wool swinging just beyond her control. No matter how she mastered the delivery of a cliché, its usage would always seem slightly forced and inappropriate to the situation.
My father, on the other hand, only used clichés if they were in Latin or German or attributable to an incredibly obscure source. He often created his own phrases which, although cryptic, were often very funny. “Only lions like martyrs” was a saying targeted at our throes of girlhood drama. “Get ‘em Broderick” was aimed at any police officer either buying coffee and doughnuts, or speeding by in a squad car. “And Richie Rich died in bed” was thrown out as a curse on any dishonest public figure, which to him included nearly all members of the Reagan administration.
I learned a lot from my father’s phrases, and retain a small cache of his arcane knowledge. On a trip to New York, I insisted on finding a monument to an Alaskan Husky, and was surprised that my local friend had never heard of Balto. “A statue of Balto stands in Central Park” was one of my dad’s favorite sayings, which loosely translated meant “congratulations” or “I’m proud of you.” I’d thought that, much like a general awareness of the moon landing, most grown-ups had heard of Balto’s statue. But the exploits of a heroic sled-dog aren’t nearly as well known as Armstrong’s one small step for man.
My parents’ approaches to language were reflections of their personalities. My mother had an almost pathological fear of encountering people, including all people aside from her husband and offspring. Her clichés were intended to mask her into the crowd, allowing her to minimally contribute to the conversation without distinguishing herself in any way. My father assumed his listeners enjoyed his obscure references, chuckling to themselves as if to say ‘so true, so true.’ If a listener could not identify the reference then they were not worth talking to in the first place. As a product of this union, I viewed most of the world with a fearful sneer. Too terrified to attempt many friendships, I still looked down on most acquaintances. To have not heard of Balto! To have parents who voted Republican! Really, who were these people? How did they survive with their primitive minds? And why were there so many like them?
As children, the influencing combination of timidity and disdain lead some of us daughters to view the outside world as a great anthropological experiment. My sister Elizabeth and I respectively decided to live amongst the savages and try to be accepted as one of their own, or to study them from afar. My research led me to develop an acute ability to categorize people. “You are just like my friend Andrea!” I once told a girl with whom I was auditioning. “I think of everyone as a unique individual,” she replied, somewhat offended by my keen power to stereotype. “That’s exactly the same thing she would say!” I agreed.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, went on to not only be accepted by the savages but also became one of their leaders, although she had to sever a bit of her soul in the process. Over time our mother came to associate her fear and dislike of strangers/neighbors/extended family members/parents of her children’s’ friends/etc. with my sister. Since Elizabeth was usually hanging out with some random, bizarre person she’d known since she was five (and therefore spending several of her non-school hours outside of the house) she was regarded with the suspicion previously reserved for our local grocery store cashiers. “I don’t know what Elizabeth is thinking” our mother would sigh, “but she apparently wants to see a movie with Jillian this weekend.” This bit of news would be delivered with an eye roll and head shake, indicating that her daughter was clearly out of her mind to crave so much questionable social contact. While Elizabeth always had the largest circle of friends she also fared the worst at home, often being treated as an untrustworthy outsider. Of the four of us, only my sister Mary had the good sense to simply not care what other people, including our parents, thought. This, naturally, irked those of us who were dedicating most of our energy towards reading others’ thoughts and adjusting our lives accordingly. “Who the hell does she think she is?” we’d say. “Can’t she tell what people think?” Whether she could or not, it didn’t bother her, and resulted in her persistently and intentionally Just Being Herself. Although, like all of us, she probably also experienced shock upon discovering that much of the city of Manhattan was unaware of the inspiring story of Balto, the laudable sled-dog.
My biggest journey into the land of the savages started the first night of my freshman year of college. Removed from my home of the previous eighteen years, I no longer had a safe haven to return to where I could record and analyze my observations. Knowing that little stood between me and total hermit-dom, I’d signed up for a double room and therefore shared my living space with a non-blood relative. While this provided me with some consistent social contact, this also meant that I was now constantly analyzing another person. My attempts to pattern out the thoughts of my roommate were only broken by sleep, until I realized towards the end of the first trimester that she was neither as intelligent nor as interesting as I’d assumed. I then turned my attentions to a male neighbor down the hall, who claimed to be a cross-dresser and regularly tried to hang himself with a much-too-long rope. For awhile we were each other’s favorite company, until I grew sick of his self-absorption and he of my codependency.
But on the first evening of the start of my life away from home, I had yet to analyze any of my dorm-mates. On orientation night, freshmen congregated in the open field behind the library, where a pep rally was held in order to welcome us to our new school. My roommate had abandoned me, so I found my way by following small groups of people who looked roughly as new to the terrain as I was. Crossing campus this way raised in me the mild panic of one who knows that they were born with no sense of direction, but the fear of being lost was soon crushed by the astounding mass of People I Did Not Know. It had been three years since the last time I’d been confronted by a large number of new souls, and for the first time ever I no longer had a safe haven built on fear and loathing of the public to return home to. Something huge was blanking me; dead-stopping my normal inner monologue of observations and judgments on my environment. A fog was hollowing my heart and stomach and roaring through my head. My father had never taught me an expression for this feeling, and my mother would not use a cliché to ever describe herself as lonely or single herself out. So I paced around the field, trying to keep my movements controlled and purposeful in order not to run, and wondered – what in the hell, what in the holy living hell, am I supposed to do now?
What I did was to pick my way across the field, and start navigating across campus as best I could back the way I came. All the while I wished a nice vampire would happen by and rip out my jugular, thus saving me from the world of people. As luck would have it, I found my dorm before any vampires found me.
The next morning, I would begin my several-week-long analysis of my roommate. Later that day I would make my first tie-dyed ti-shirt, and meet a disproportionately large number of sorority girls in my orientation group. Towards the end of the week I would discover the male interest down the hall and began my appreciation of his self-destructive quirkiness and intellectual snobbery. And the following week I’d attend my first undergraduate theatre classes, meeting a disproportionately large number of very attractive gay men. But my first night as a freshman I acted more like an overwhelmed novice than experienced anthropologist. Jacked up on fear, I stuck my head under the covers and went to sleep, leaving the disorderly world behind.
*****
My intention was to imitate David Sedaris. I believe I've come as close as I can come. I tend towards the melodramatic or pathetically self-absorbed, as opposed to holding on to the humor thread like he can. It was an interesting exercise. Mr. Sedaris, of course, rocks and should be read by all.
30:31
Remember these with me:
My pretty's arms, all cut up.
The sly toilet goblin. Our reflections - skin pink, skin green.
You in a stupor. A visible vapor.
Pretty boys in pretty dresses with heels higher than mine, higher than you.
Tiny, flavored portions.
What killed me was - I knew I loved you more.
And never, ever, would I stop loving you. More.
And then we were done.
**********
This is 'major edit number 2' to the train of thought that became this poem. I'm more or less happy with it. If you think something is misspelled or mis-stated it's probably not.
The title needs work, though. The title is a non sequitur right now.
And it's a little too blunt but - oh well.
perspective
I could finally cross
Experience’s door
Slap on muddy war-paint, understanding.
When before I forgave
Those years hours days
Now, I ask – how could you?
My nucleus, my radiant love
A firefly gasping in an un-holed jar
How could you. How could you.
Froggy doesn’t know
He’s been set to boil
The prisoners assume
The building’s helpless too
See the doughy martyr
See the skinny saint
How could you, how could you, how could you -
You
And now
As a new love is born
I often wish
It was just the two of us
Without you
Dark Entry (Night)
I’ve prepared myself, analyzed, discussed, dissected the evening, and concluded: I shall probably need to get drunk. Experience tells me so.
* * *
When I was in junior high I was a babysitter. Nearly all the girls were; if you didn’t baby-sit your own siblings you baby-sat for your relatives’ or neighbors’ kids. Sitting was the social activity of (non-dating) 11-13 year old girls on a Friday or Saturday night. If you were lucky, the kids went to sleep early, allowing you to spend the rest of the evening watching a movie or MTV or talking on the phone. You called your friends to gossip or to talk about plans for the week or to vent about your horrible parents or for one other reason: because you were scared. Usually my babysitting friends’ phone calls to me began the same way, “Hi I’m calling because the kids are in bed and the entire house is dark so I’m going around turning on all the lights because it’s freaky, you know exactly like in Halloween, okay there the lights are on, that’s better, so how are you?”
I did not call my friends because I was scared. I actually made a point of noting at the beginning on my phone conversations that all the lights were off, I was watching the scariest movie the family owned, and I was just fine. While my proclamations were mostly just my showing off, it was also true that I wasn’t scared. At age 12 the dark didn’t bother me. I had shaken off that childhood fear because I, the highly competitive oldest sibling, had found yet another way of proving how much better I was than my sisters. I sneered at the dark and pitied those with nocturnal phobias. I was strong enough to know that the dark couldn’t hurt me.
This night grrl attitude served me well throughout my teenage-hood and right on into my first couple years of college. I proudly took long walks at night figuring that just in case anything happened, I would claw any attacker's eyeballs out with my keys and send 'em crying home to their mommy. The only time I ever scurried back to my apartment while on a 1 a.m. summer stroll was when I had the misfortune of crossing paths with a baby possum; although the night didn’t faze me, animals did. Plus possums are just plain ugly.
My second to last year of college, I spent the first week of Christmas break partying nightly with my friends. We ventured into the empty dark seeking out a good time through the ice and snow. We loved the night and warmed ourselves with Skyy and cigarettes. Oh yeah, (sarcasm) I was a bad ass, me and my knee-high vinyl boots. I interrupted my partying for a week or so to visit my family for the holidays, and then returned to campus a few days before the quarter started in anticipation of a fricking awesome New Year’s Eve alcohol-fest. Life was good.
I actually had two apartments at that time. I was in the process of moving out of my evil roommate’s apartment and into a house shared with five other people. My dad dropped me off at the evil roommate’s apartment, and right after slipping me the traditional “use this for whatever” $20, he offered to drive me back to the family home that night, then back to campus again the next day. And I almost took him up on it. Because – it felt right. It felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there that night, and everything would be better if I just went home. Like the local air just wasn’t happy with me hanging around. But I didn’t want to leave, because I was a big tough girl who could deal with anything the night air had to throw at me. And I didn’t want to make my poor dad drive all that way again. So I said no, but agreed that I would gather up a bag of things and spend the night at my new apartment, which was much closer to campus and in a somewhat nicer neighborhood.
After my dad dropped me off at apartment #2, I watched a movie, and then around midnight or so I decided it was time to go to sleep. Since I didn’t have any furniture in the new place yet I elected to forego sleeping on the sofa or the floor of my empty (dining-room-turned-bed) room and bunked in my roommate’s room – the bedroom farthest from the front door. I chose this room simply because I got along with this roommate better, and knew she wouldn’t mind. As I was getting ready for bed I heard the girl who lived upstairs head out with god-knows-who - roommate, boyfriend, friends – whoever. They were fairly noisy tramping down the stairs. I’d been warned she was fairly heavy-footed, but a nice girl overall. Then I dove into the fullness of the calm night, and fell asleep.
I woke up to the sound of the doorbell. It was dark outside, but I saw from the alarm clock it was right around 6 a.m. For some reason as soon as I awoke I felt sick to my stomach, and as though my heart would fly right through my ribs and skin. I was terrified. I told myself to calm down, it was just the doorbell, and the girl upstairs had likely locked herself or her friend out. I closed my eyes and wanted to go back to sleep. It wasn’t my problem.
But, I didn’t like the way the doorbell was ringing – incessantly. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong very very fast, as though it were being abused. The longer and faster the bell rang, the more I could feel myself becoming agitated, and I tried mentally willing my neighbor to find her keys and come inside or do whatever needed to be done to shut the bell up, because I couldn’t stand the noise it was making. And at some point, probably when the banging on the door started accompanying the crying bell, my brain started telling me there was something really, truly wrong, and I needed to get out of there.
This is what was wrong: although there were noises on the bell and the door, it was silent. No one called out asking to be let in, no one cursed her lost keys, no one laughed drunkenly wondering what to do now, and no one at all was in the house besides me. It was as if whoever was at the door was making the noise as a test, just to see what would happen. And, because I lay morbidly dumbstruck in my roommate’s bed, nothing was happening. So the noises went on and on. I felt locked, paralyzed, waiting for someone to come along to pull me out of bed and show me what to do.
And then, the doorbell stopped, the door ceased rattling, and I heard a brand new sound – glass breaking.
Somehow, this new piercing sound freed me. A sense of sleepwalking direction cooled my body, replacing my heart in its cage. I sat up, focusing on a brief list: shoes, coat, purse. It felt as though I was standing outside myself like a teacher, or as if the smart kid who knew all the answers had slipped me a note: shoes, coat, purse. I needed to acquire those items, in that order. That was what I had to do.
It was the middle of winter, freezing outside. At least a foot of snow covered the ground. I was wearing sweatpants and a ti-shirt. I needed my shoes, coat, purse. Once I had these things, I had to accomplish a larger goal: GETOUTOFTHEHOUSE. This new directive came to me not like a neatly written list, but as a roar, reverberating in my skull. I had to get out of the house, and my shoes, coat, purse should come with me.
To get out of the house, I had to get out of the room. To leave the room, I had to open the door. But there was a problem; upon opening the door I would step into the kitchen, which meant possible exposure. I had no idea who was outside the house, or how many people there were. Obviously at least one person was at the front door, but from the that door it was impossible to see anything inside the house, since it only opened into a small air lock and not directly into any of the rooms. However, a wide porch wrapped around the house from the front door to around the sidewall along the back to the kitchen, where there were enormous floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors. If anyone stood on the porch near the kitchen, they’d see the bedroom door open and know I was there. I reasoned, though, that so far I hadn’t heard anyone on the porch, plus I knew there was another set of sliding glass doors on the opposite side of the house which led to the tiny front yard and then directly to a fairly busy and well-lit street. So, as I deliberately opened the door I felt confidant that, shoes or no shoes, I could make it into that street before anyone could catch me. See, that was another problem, none of those 3 items I wanted - shoes, coat, purse - were in the bedroom with me.
I opened the bedroom door. There was no one standing near the kitchen. Relief. But by now the sound of breaking glass had been conquered by a dark, more threatening sound –a doorknob being pulled, twisted, pulled.
In a series of moves that probably took me no more than a few seconds to complete but which to me drew themselves out into entire evenings, I did this: jumped forward and made sure the door leading from the airlock into our apartment was dead-bolted, slipped into my shoes, grabbed my purse and jacket which were on the floor next to my shoes, turned and flew though the kitchen out the sliding door across the snowy back yard, over our small fence, and up the street towards the train station, which was just over a block away. It was still dark outside, just before 6:30 am, on New Year’s Eve. I was heading towards the closest phone I could think of, so I could call the police. I had gotten OUTOFTHEHOUSE with my shoes, coat, purse and really wasn’t sure what to do next, but calling the police sounded like a fair idea.
I wonder what the police must have thought of me, the perplexed girl on the phone saying she hated to bother them but perhaps her house had just been broken into, she really wasn’t sure. It was after all very early and I had been sleeping and was now cold and, well, fine really, and felt kind of stupid and lost over the whole thing, but I really didn’t know what else to do. If I recall correctly, the officer was actually a little rude to me, telling me to head back to the house so I could meet the responding policemen there. However, given that I myself didn’t actually believe my house was being broken in to, and had spent the last several moments operating on some kind of bizarre autopilot, I can see why he wouldn’t have lent much credence to what I was trying to explain. Nothing seemed rational at all. I almost believed I was inside a cold, vivid dream. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling as though I should follow the officer’s instructions, I agreed to go back to meet the policemen at the house. But said I was going to wait on the train platform until I saw the squad cars.
And, within only a few moments, there were an awful lot of squad cars. 11 in all showed up – city police and campus police alike. They didn’t show up all at once, but came in 1s, 2s, and 3s until the entire home and all streets nearby were choked with police cars and sirens. The scene appeared both surreal and authoritative; the number of officers overwhelmed me. Realizing that I could hardly be in danger with so many squad cars around me, I turned and ran down the stairs off the train platform, up the street, and back towards the house. As I ran towards the closest policeman, I felt like a stupid silly girl who had caused a lot of trouble just because she had heard noises in the dark. I had no idea what to say. I slowed my run and blurted out “hello.”
“Are you the one who called?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Are your roommates home?”
“No.”
“Does anyone live in the attic?”
“No.” As soon as he said attic the entire world, which had been looking a little fuzzy, slammed into focus like a picture in a viewfinder. Someone was in the attic of my house, where no one belonged. It was dawn on New Years Eve, and I was standing next to an officer who was now giving his coworkers an okay to go inside my house and trap the person in the attic, because there was someone in there. Not even an hour earlier, someone had broken in my house while I was inside of it, and now here I was outside surrounded by policemen and women who were running in to my house to drag that person out. And as another officer came up to me and walked me to his car across the street, where I could be warm and out of the way, I started to cry. Not in a cathartic, sobbing way but where suddenly tears streamed from my eyes without fanfare. I sat in the police car and watched three or four officers lead a tall, dirty, skinny man out of my house that I did not know and had not seen before, and silently cried. I don’t think my cop even realized I was doing it. After a few minutes I composed myself, because I saw no sense in crying. The event was done; I had handled it. Maybe not well, but I certainly hadn’t failed either. Later on a police counselor would gently tell me that I should have just turned on the light, as that would have likely driven the person away. Another officer would tell me that I should have been more direct with the police when I first called so I wouldn’t have confused them. My mother would tell me I should have gotten out of the house sooner and left my shoes, coat, and purse there.
For all the good post break-in instructions, however, the fact still remained that I had handled things just fine. I was safe, nothing in the entire house was stolen, and the police caught a thief. I was in charge of the night, now had even more strength behind my victory over that stupid childhood fear. I had completed a traumatic event and was not much worse for the wear. As my body readjusted to real-time living and emerged from autopilot I finished my tears, and thanked the policeman for helping me.
And yes, later on that night, I had one hell of a time at one hell of a party.
***
But now it is several years later, and I am spending a few nights alone. I live in a wonderful, safe house in a wonderful safe neighborhood. I am an adult, fully self-sufficient, with a strong sense of self and a lingering vinyl-booted desire to prove in some way that I am tougher than you are. But I’ve got this problem. Over the years since the break-in, previous evenings alone have taught me that tonight I will stay awake until exhaustion with as many lights on as I can tolerate, deliberately positioned an easy running distance from one door with my eye glued to another, watching movies and calling friends as I fight off fear and sleep. The knowledge of this fate disgusts me, and I want to squash it. I hate this helpless frightened girl that I am.
Luckily, I have a solution. I’ve analyzed, discussed, and dissected the evening, and concluded: I shall need to get drunk. Then I’ll be able to throw beer bottles at the empty night, feeling pathetically triumphant as I fall asleep in a stupor that replaces safety.
***
And with that, good night. May your dreams be sweet, and your doorbells silent. If you are one of those I call, take pity on me please. The night is early, and the vodka hasn't kicked in yet. I promise some day I shall repay you.
- acr
The problems with boys/The benefits of girls
Boy children fuss -
Tearing into everything -
Stubbornly stomping until given their way.
Those unfortunate ones with sons
Adapt to muddy footprints, lizards, race cars,
Toy guns, occasional outbursts at school.
A boy tumbles through the world -
Hurtling until he rights himself.
A son leaves home
Still sledding down mountains -
A character built on black eyes, shoulder punches,
And impish grins.
Girls quiet down when told -
Standing out of the way
When instructed not to run with the other children.
By age eight a daughter learns
She'd rather serve than eat first at a party.
Well-maintained girls, in dresses or jeans,
Peek into the world more modestly.
Eager to be liked -
Pleasantly attentive to feelings and egos.
Their keepers nod,
Delighted by their thorough taming and molding.
Girls smile in return -
It would be rude to do otherwise.
If I have a daughter
I'll let her bite the dog -
Talk during class -
Take a fall, perhaps breaking her bones.
As she hides her brother's soldiers I'll shake my head
At my errant girl,
Who would rather be happy than good.
***
this is a draft of sorts, I'd like to make it a little less obvious
(())==== [Fall/Sound]
One year later -
Splinters.
Imagine my astonishment;
The trunk's just a phantom.
Water conduits rot,
Nothing left to climb.
It must have been the lightening -
Or possibly the parasite -
Age was on our side.
Paste and nails may re-connect but
It's only an empty box.
Goodbye, then.
All and the leaving is done.
seventy
awed and humbled
*
now: more work
8/14&15/04 This is a placecard for the true writing, which hasn't arrived yet
In wine . . .
There is a saying ‘ in wine there is truth.’ I would like to add, ‘in Martini, there is adoration.’
I’m a relatively optimistic person. I think most bitter cynical people are. I am sure my cynicism comes from viewing the world from inside my head – in there, the world is a decent place. People try their hardest to do good, and strive for originality and creativity in their expressions. The vast majority of folks get along. Karma swiftly levels the playing field. No one laughs at you if you are 12 and wear your hair moussed-up like that picture you saw in a magazine where the girl had pointy bangs. Men wear fishnets without complaining if their lovers want them to. Gardens spring up if all you do it think about them. And so on, and so on. Contrast my happy-headed world with real life and you get – disappointment. And from disappointment bounds forth cynicism. ‘Bitter’ is the tone most commonly used when voicing cynicism- but a proper sense of humor helps temper or inflame the bitterness (of course, this pretty much depends on the individual).
So – I am an optimist, so I am a cynic. Or ‘pragmatist’ if I am in unfamiliar/polite company. (Or ‘mute,’ if I am really out of my league. But I digress.)
I thought I understood life’s more powerful emotions. Optimistically, I believed I grasped the concept of ‘true, devoted love.’ I thought I knew enough to recognize that devotion took on many forms. There is the 12-year-old-girl devotion to the wonderful androgynous being that is David Bowie. There is the 19-year-old devotion to anything related to the theatre (and sometimes Kenneth Branagh). There is the 22-year-old devotion to self-destruction, which is not quite as deadly as the devotion to self-improvement. Then there is devotion to a peer, a true flesh-and-blood other, who also devotes themselves to you. But, of course, in this devotion occasionally devotion itself wavers – it does not disappear, but it flickers, such as when you notice how fine Bowie looks at 50, or when the possessive imp that keeps the flesh-and-blood other from putting their laundry away rears its ugly head. But, you think, surely devotion itself is not devoted all of the time, correct? How would you distinguish feelings of devotion if they were a constant? You could not – times of flickering are a part of life, and make times of devotion all that more consuming.
I now realize, though, that particular sentiment is merely another embodiment of my cynicism. I learned this late one night, when I returned home from school. As I closed the garage door behind me, I heard something – a desperate sound coming from the living room. The sound built – reaching a crescendo – and as I turned the corner into the living room I was greeted by . . .
. . .my puppy, thundering towards me as fast as her little legs could carry her. I bent down to pet her and she slammed her body into mine, tail wagging frantically and her little puppy nose working crazily trying to drink all of me in at once. She looked up at me with her hazel eyes and her look clearly said, “Where have you been? My life was incomplete without you. Thank god you are home.” From the couch, my husband called, “Hi, dear,” and returned to his computer.
Martini continued to wag her entire body, trying to climb up my limbs and nestle herself somewhere in between my stomach and collarbone. Needless to say, this effort failed but, undeterred, she continued to welcome me home by leaping into the air and barking. After all, it had been over a day since the last time I came home – and well over 12 hours since the last time she laid her little puppy eyes on me. Mere tail wagging alone was not enough to mark the occasion. Had she been capable of singing, or back-flipping, or gathering the neighborhood together for a parade I believe she gladly would have done so, but since she was a mere puppy dog she did the best she could – yelping and jumping and covering my ankles with kisses.
Perhaps, as a child, I loved another at this level. Sadly, I do not remember. More sadly, I am not sure if I will love this way again. My devotion now finds boundaries, and does not display itself with pomp and circumstance. When I slam my body into another I do so in an entirely different form of expression, and at much lower speeds. And usually not on the living room floor.
For her efforts Martini was rewarded the best way I could think of – with a small cookie. This prompted another bout of tail wagging puppy prancing explosions. Obviously, today was the best day of her young puppy life – for not only had I come home, I had given her a doggie treat! And told her she was a ‘good dog.’ Any more joy might have caused her little canine heart to burst.
As humans, I do not believe we are capable of such sheer adulation and unwavering dedication. Yes, over the long term, I am devoted to another. And there are those I love I know I would protect with my life and limb – and, as I am fond of my life and limbs, I think this is a substantial commitment. But the level of ‘puppy-love’ no longer exists – it has been replaced by conditions and can be overshadowed by selfish wants.
I view myself as an optimist. I try to believe this world can be a better place – maybe this line of thought is closer to ‘idealism’ than anything. But a tiny chocolate Labrador introduced me to a height of devotion my idealistic mind had never before considered. A level where, no matter how many times I go away, or how often I interrupt her fun and prevent her from eating the papasahn, or how much I groan during the 3:00 AM potty trips, she will still look at me with her hazel puppy eyes and say, “You are the center of my world. Your presence alone makes me happy.”
So – here is my idealistic, optimistic, pragmatic advice to you out there – oh souls who seek an undying, perfect love, who continue in your search for The One who will adore you day in and day out, who will contentedly lay themselves at your feet. For those of you who believe in the perfection of unwavering, unconditional devotion – here is what you must do:
Buy a dog.
And try, try to make yourself worthy of their adoration and kisses. You won't succeed, but try anyway.
Because if you don't, Martini and I will kick yer ass.
- written with love 5/12/04 by Sommit's Chocolate Martini's mommy
Ravenswood
A cinder
In the hollow crack
Between a coffee can
And woven plastic
Struggles to survive the long night -
Ready to call it quits and fade away.
Then, a stir -
A gentle breath blows.
Aroused, the ember
Licks the air.
The flicker soon consumes the breeze
Roaring over gentle protests
Devouring metal, plastic, wood,
Her bed,
Their books.
Across the street
I watch the cinders raging,
So overcome with lust they will
Take us all for fuel.
* this poem is about the fire that destroyed over half a block of apartments in June of 2000. Our neighbors lost their homes. Although our building suffered significant damage, firefighters arrived in time to save it. The difference between home and homeless that night was only a few feet.*
Tarot Card 2 of Cups
- an example of my limited drafting ability
- The 2 of Cups is one of my favorite cards, and had a place in my wedding. The card symbolizes love as a devoted pledge between two individuals, or a strong relationship between two people. This is a hopeful card, promising good things to come.
Daybook
Her skirt kicks, kicks,
The love of her life in tow.
Her hair falls like fronds
Beating her face,
Sweeping her eyes.
Work awaits, a faithful lover
She just can't shake,
Waiting patiently while she struggles -
AMs are a bitch.
The park on her right
Turns sadder with each season
As if spring can't wash away
Decades of soot, oil and salt.
She'd hide in the park in high school,
Glad for the anonymous freedom
Found in dusks, found in ink.
Her skirt kicks, wraps around her leg
Covers her boot and trips her -
I believe she cuts her palms,
Leaving some skin on the sidewalk.
Her hair, I think, matches mine -
The color lifts a girl from anonymity.
She hastens her walk, passing the park.
Eyes silent, I follow -
Dawdling.
Lovely Lyrical Nature
Words kill.
They slash and cut and destroy
Sensations.
In the ever elusive attempt
To describe a
Thought or
Feeling
The snake-like demons dart away
Contributing only empty air
And a page full of
Dark
Black
Smudges
Glowering hatefully.
Diminutive blades decapitate
Impressions;
Hate and Spite
Seem so harmless
Dumbly lying on a slice of tree.
- April 6, 1992.
random
In time, a cat came to town
And, walking upright, said to me,
"Good afternoon, young miss,
Might I have some tiny cheese?"
"No!" said I, and kicked him hard . . .
the above was written for a performance of poetry final - 1995?
Rose Room Narrative
My grandmother's house isn't in the family anymore. Which is a damn shame, since she and my grandfather (who I never met, by the way) built it. Her children sold it after she died. It's a beautiful house; close enough to the Mississippi River that on summer mornings you can hear the boat whistles and smell the water. My siblings and I loved visiting her house, and found it fascinating that it had been split in two. The right half housed my grandmother's family, while the left was rented out to boarders - my great aunt lived there when I was a little girl. If you were brave enough to go down into the musty basement and creep around the corner of the laundry room you'd find an identical staircase to the creaky one you'd just forced yourself down. And if you ran up that stairway and put your ear to the door at the top you could hear what was going on in the kitchen next door.
I have a recurring dream about my grandmother’s house. It features her upper stairway, the grand one - well, it would be grand, if a dividing wall - set off of the living room by glass doors and leading to the second floor - didn’t halve it. In my dream, I always start out at the foot of the dark stairs and climb up. When I get to the top of the stairs I look to my left and see past the huge wood framed mirror given to my mother's father's mother by her father on her wedding day, and notice that in the corner of that wall lies a passageway. This is a pathway leading to the Rooms That Are Never Used. In my dream, I turn left at the top of my grandmother's stairs.
As I walk along the pathway, I encounter variously shaped and sized rooms. Some are furnished like the bedrooms in the main part of the house, with heavy oak furniture and white bedspreads. Others are bare except for angled ceilings and shadows. Others seem like they've been recently used, free from the layer of grey dust that has settled elsewhere. And then there is The Room, the focus of my dream. This room is the Rose Room.
I can't ever stay here very long because I know this room doesn't belong to me yet. So I turn away and run back down the corridor and find my way to my grandmother's stairs, as the dream ends. And that's it. It's not scary or fantastic or revealing, but it's something I dream over and over and over. When I was younger, after dreaming it, I tended to note it in my journal or tell my mom that I dreamt about the room in grandmother's house again, and she’d say "hmm, I wonder where we took you when you were little that you saw a room like that."
Usually, I’d agree with her and then turn the conversation to other things. But I was lying when I’d agree with her, because I don't wonder where such a room exists. I know exactly where it is. It's to the left of the stairs, past the mirror and through the wall of my grandmother's house. Or rather, the house that once was my grandmother's and someday, hopefully, will be mine. Someday I intend to buy that house and build that room if I have to. You know why?
Because it's good to make dreams come true. And with that I end this narrative. Please feel free to dream about whatever it is that's on your mind. I hope your dreams are pleasant, and I hope you like to share them. Because it's a well-known fact that once someone tells you about her dream, you're obligated to return with a tale of your own.
Go ahead.
M
For good wines
And for bad
For automatic settings
And measuring the light
For clothes on the floor
For backrubs
And rain
For candles, for water
For furry rabbit faces
For sealing wax
For fog, and snow
And sun, (sometimes)
For windows and covers
And plastic and china
And pleasure and frustration
And matching inscriptions in our rings
Alphabet Fluff/What's In My Head
A is for Aion, enchanting of sound.
B is a blue which enwraps and surrounds.
C is Christine in acr.
D is for doorways, both light and dark.
E is eclectic - or 'many tastes'.
F is for Fury - fire and grace.
G is for gather, like letters and cards.
H is a heart in an indigo jar.
I is for ice - cicles and cubes.
J is for those who can only amuse.
K is for keening - bright wails and cries;
L is a lament for the keening I've tried.
M is macabre; it's fun to pretend.
N is naked, for when the games end.
O is for outings that turn into lore;
P is for pairings, then being left wanting more.
Q is for quiet with candles and scent.
R is for rest when mind and body are spent.
S is a siren - desire as pure.
T is for taming and making things yours.
U is umbrella - Monet on the wall.
V is for virtue and vices (the fall).
W is weather - abundance is best.
X can be tripled but rarely seems fresh.
Y is for young - youth abides here.
Z is a zoo full of vampires and queers.
Ghosts Poem
The ghosts are outside
Whipping around house-corners.
I opened the window to ask one in
But, scared, it flew away.
Ghosts are knocking at my roof
Anxious to haunt the attic.
Silly ghouls – just come in!
You needn’t tear the rafters.
Ghosts are in my lap, my books.
Ghosts I chased with other folks should
Return to window tapping;
Be friendly to me again.
The Great American Bigot
The great American bigot
Says, “If I was a Jew
I’d make sure my bills were paid.
Wouldn’t you?
Otherwise people are likely to say –
‘As a Jew, you must be tight with money.’”
His great American gut
Is filled with fancy food,
He is open to foreign flavors -
Wide open, expanded.
His great American mind,
Appreciates that in some parts of the world
Folks live in caves, work for pennies
An hour, and eat mad cow and like it.
The great American bigot
Can shit for 45 minutes at a time.
“One day, the Indians from India
Will ruin our economy,” he thinks.
He reads the daily paper – some authors
Write so well you don’t know
They’re Mexican by birth.
American schools are really something.
The great American bigot
Sees things no one else sees.
In his greatness he is humble,
As an American he is proud.
- 1/27/04
This is the edited version. The unedited is better - but I'm not entirely comfortable with the thought of posting that one.