Telling
Timing is everything.
I’ve had a history during the past – oh – 2-ish years of taking a pregnancy test hours before the start of my period. My timing has been so dead-on successful that I am happy to recommend to all women anywhere that if you are nervous you might unwontedly be pregnant all you have to do is pee on a stick and bingo! you will bleed. It works every time. No really trust me, it seriously works as long as you do it right.
I’d had reason to believe 2011 might be different. For one thing my stress levels finally lowered. Finally. In hindsight, I’m surprised I survived 2010. I say that semi-melodramatically. But the lowered stress allowed me to move from a 21-day-or-less cycle into my more ‘regular’ rhythm of ’21 days this month 30 days next month followed by 24 followed by 25 followed by 28 followed by 22’ etc. With a cycle of less than 21 days you have precious little chance of conceiving, as it becomes more likely you’re just not ovulating. 2010 was not a good year.
My stress levels fell in 2011 in part because I was just exhausted. I was also thoroughly and completely done with “just trying.” Turns out one can have sex in many different positions, at different times of day, and do many different things afterwords - including ‘nothing’ for many different periods of time – and not conceive. One can have sex after taking ones temperature, with or without urinating on LH surge predictors, plotting or not plotting days on a calendar, with and without measuring what-the-F-ever the latest website you found said to measure – and not conceive. You know that thing you did that resulted in 16 kids? You remember how you got pregnant just by thinking about it? You remember how you had sex standing on your head exactly 16.2 hours after your basal body temp increased by precisely .03 degrees and then laid on your tummy with a pillow under BOTH ankles for 27 minutes and then drank a strawberry slushie and went to church? After your husband took ginseng for 15 days and looked at porn but did not masturbate? Oh – and this is important – you wanted to get pregnant? Tried it. Didn’t work. Weird, right? Must be something wrong with me.
But – trust me on this – should you want to get rid of a pregnancy? Take any stick test at any point in your cycle anywhere and presto! Worries be gone. Hand to god. Doesn’t matter if it’s a 21 day cycle or one that’s cruelly over 30 fricking days and your boobs are really sore and you’re never this late and you tried really, really super hard this time and didn’t run over 2 miles or anything - it works. Your period comes. It’s like magic.
So in late 2010 and throughout 2011 I’ve pursued more aggressive alternatives to merely pre-during-post sexual acrobatics. When my first doctor told me, more than once, to keep on trying for a few more months I found a new doctor. That doctor kindly ran a few tests and referred me to a fertility clinic. Thank god!!! The fertility clinic ran a few tests and devised a living plan designed to help increase the odds of my getting pregnant. The plan includes A LOT of visits to the clinic and ultrasounds and many, many blood tests. But at least it’s a PLAN, even if it’s vampiric.
Just this morning, in fact, I had blood drawn out of a bruised vein that had a poor blood draw last week since I didn’t drink an enormous amount of water prior to the draw. Ooops. I don’t remember being told to drink a lot of water. My bad. This was a painful morning. This morning wrapped up my first full cycle of medication: 6 days of self-injections with one drug, one day of injecting myself with another drug, a short pause, then a week and a half of 2 progesterone supplements per day. Lots of meds. Lots of money. Lots of running to the clinic first thing in the morning, then rushing to work hoping no one comments on the tardiness or the new bandaid. Lots of water and vitamins and curbing of activity (while trying to stay just active enough) in order to try to increase the odds just a wee bit more. Lots of calling on such-and-such a day secretly from work to schedule the next appointment and conversations with the pharmacy regarding my precious meds which need to be refrigerated and signed for personally, by me, and not simply picked up at a retail location.
Just this morning, when I had my blood drawn on day 25 of a fully medicated and monitored cycle for a super-sensitive pregnancy-detecting test, I thought to myself I bet in a couple hours I’ll get my period and won’t need a follow up phone call to tell me the negative results.
I was right. I'm telling you - it works.
It’s okay. We’ve done this several times now. Today I eat chocolate and sigh and drink with a screw-the-world attitude and feel bloated and wish to god I hated, loathed, despised children.
Tomorrow, we figure out how to start again. And I follow my new steps of calling the clinic, running in for a baseline test, and waiting to be told when to start the injections again.
And at the end of 2011, we promise ourselves, we administer lobotomies on each other because after awhile, hope becomes too stressful and exhausting to keep around.
Running Child
I’ve noted that running doesn’t allow me to “fake.” I’ve either got the stamina or I don’t. When I do have the stamina, it’s because my mind and body are working together to keep me moving forward. If the mind wished to continue but the body couldn’t, I’d end up stopped: exhausted, confused, frustrated. Conversely if the body could keep going but the mind hadn’t bought into the plan I’d wind down slowed to stopped, muttering ‘f*ck this’ (or thoughts to that effect).
When I started running/speed walking I had one primary goal in mind: to see if I could do it. I had a training plan to follow with an ultimate end date: on X day I would either complete 13.1 miles, or I wouldn’t. Secondarily, I would either finish within the time I desired or it would take me longer. The goal certainly wasn’t easy, but it was simple.
I did all of my training for that first race on a treadmill, wearing the stupidest shoes I could have selected (cheap and stubborn is sometimes smart; in this case it was stupid). As I started training my mind began revealing secondary goals to me which I had not yet consciously realized. For example, one newly realized goal was: I am never going to put my daughter in the position of having to care for me because I did not care for myself. After a few more miles this goal was paired with: I am never going to let myself become like my mother and ultimately I am never going to throw my health away. These excavated goals were typically paired with tears – a byproduct of my trying to turn sadness into inspiration.
During the few years since I began running/speed walking I still to set out with conscious goals, but re-discover that my mind prefers to reflect on its own agenda of topics. A benefit to this quirk is that I am rarely bored while running. A drawback is that I apparently can’t control where my mind takes me. Occasionally I’ll get stuck in “oh god this stinks how much farther” mode, especially when I’m on a route I’ve completed umpteen times previously. If I’m lucky I can combat this with music before my unconscious brain takes over; if I’m less lucky then I try to focus on some upcoming event that I’m excited about in order to stay upbeat. If I’m completely unlucky I’ll just hope it’s a short enough distance that I can grit my teeth and hammer it out. If I’m completely unlucky and can’t conjure up music or the thought of a fun event and I’m more than 2 miles from home then the thoughts start churning. Sometimes I begin to panic.
True panic has only happened to me a couple times, but it’s pretty mind-blowing. The first time it occurred I was returning from a long run, roughly 4 miles from home. I’d exhausted the songs on my iPod and was annoyed as hell by the winter winds slamming across the open fields along my route. I was so weary the only thought I could focus on was the fact that I still had grocery shopping to do. The ground was frozen gravelly slush, which irked me more with every step. The one and only thing I wanted was to be back at home, done with the run. Under normal circumstances I could have brushed that off and felt some pride in my tough-girl attitude. But this time I seemed to have no reserves left for any bravado.
Instead a fear consumed me: an unambiguous, evil threat that something awful was happening to my daughter, and I was stuck out here. I was distant, slow, and defeated – an alone and completely ineffective parent slogging down a frozen road. In my mind I could almost see my daughter – happy and warm in our living room, still wearing her pajamas, playing with her toys on the floor while her daddy watched her and helped her select movies. I could see the two of them – warm, sunny, cozy and happy. The image did not match the cruel fear in my brain, body and heart: something awful was happening right now.
The panic felt so strong I had to literally stop moving. I never stop moving on a run/walk. It’s unnecessary and unproductive. I’ll stop for traffic if Ihave to. But in the cold, covered in sweat, with only a handful of miles to go? I’d never ever stop moving for a reason other than personal safety. I’d cramp! I’d freeze! I’d add seconds to my time! It wouldn’t occur to me to come to a standstill! But that’s what I had to do: I stopped. I stopped to prevent myself from falling over or blacking out. The more I moved, the more the fear grew that something awful awful awful awful was occurring to the person I loved more than any other thing in this world.
I stopped; I tried to breathe. I reasoned that the only possible choice I had was to keep moving through 4 more miles to get home. There were literally no shortcuts I could take and no cars to flag down during the winter weekend morning on a back country road. I needed to finish 4 miles because the only other option was to literally lie down and die from hypothermia and that would have been stupid. None of this made the panic evaporate, but the logical argument for moving was strong enough that I was able to go back to running/walking/trudging and live with the awful fear. As I got within 2 miles of my house the panic subsided enough that I could recognize that my precious family and home were most likely fine and the feelings were akin to a nightmare. At 1 mile away I was nearly back to normal and could focus on the delicious downhill I was going to face as I got to the back entrance to my subdivision. As I walked through my front door and saw my daughter and husband lounging in the living room I felt frustrated and foolish for allowing the panic to come over me in the first place.
The next week, however, as I started along the same route I had to turn around after a couple miles. The memory of the spot where the panic attack occurred yelled too loudly in my brain. I opted instead to complete the planned distance by essentially running in several 2 to 3 mile loops around my house. I found that as long as I stayed within a shorter distance of home the fear never set in. To be perfectly honest, while I can bike along that path without issue it takes a small feat of courage to get me to run/walk along it again even in perfect weather.
I’m not sure why I panicked. I’ll assume it resulted from a general feeling of being tired and overwhelmed. I wish I’d experienced a more pleasant form of panic such as worrying simply about the distance. Fear for my daughter’s well-being tasted particularly insidious and cruel. It seemed as if my mind had carefully selected the single most horrifying thought I could imagine and manifested that idea throughout my entire nervous system. I can’t think of why I would sabotage myself so thoroughly.
Thankfully I rarely panic to such an extent. More often I can place myself in a happily imagined story well before boredom sets in. My psyche also greatly prefers structure (or semi-structured) thoughts to random, overwhelming feelings. So my brain will conjure up thoughts, ideas, plans, memories, inner dialogues, word fixations etc. before blindly snapping and flooding me with vague sensations. I also rarely experience ‘runners high.’ I’m assuming for these same reasons.
Lately, though, right about the time I begin feeling worn/beaten down by a run, my mind has become fond of reminding me of memories I deliberately don’t revisit. It’s a mean, unfriendly thing to have my unconscious coping mechanism dwell on childhood wounds instead of anything more entertaining. It puts me in an even more weakened state, and I’ve stopped/greatly slowed more runs than I’d like to admit so I can cry and re-adjust my breathing to a state less severe. I’m only writing about it now in the hopes that this will help it go away. I’ve actually grown to dislike long runs because I know inevitably I’ll just end up bleakly staring at a youth I will never, ever be able to correct and feeling ripped-off, helpless, and furious. Long distances remind me that it never got better and hurt even more than the nightmares where I’m stuck in my parents’ house again. I really miss my longer distances because, while even a single mile has great health benefits, I was god damn proud of my endurance.
I love completing 13.1 miles. Or, I loved it. No, it’s not an Olympic feat but to me it felt like scaling Everest. Half-marathons were an amazing source of pride – even with my well-over-2-hour-times. Now if I push myself up towards 5 miles I know I’m risking drowning into a blubbering mess. If I don’t set-up with a virtual movie ready to play in my head I’m just asking for drama. I am going to remember how much I hated every stinking incident of my formative years and how pissed off I still am at parents who never helped themselves, let alone their children. At least at the end of the memories I can usually wrap up by reaffirming my promise that things will never ever be that bad for my children.
My child. I mean to say, things will never ever be that bad for my child, my daughter. I had another child, but it died in the womb. And I’ve only been pregnant one single other time. That’s it. We haven’t been successful in creating another. We’ve had a doctor confirm that for at least one of us it’s going to be quite challenging to create another without procedural intervention: which is ridiculously expensive with an un-encouraging success rate but a much higher risk of heartache. Heartache and loss and debt and poverty. The thing I swear daily I’ll avoid for my daughter.
Lately, when I run – if I can muster the stamina to keep moving I think: I’ve failed, I’ve failed, I’ve failed. My brilliant, self-protecting choices backfired. I have a beautiful, loving daughter to whom I do a disservice because I can’t give her a family. I fail as a woman because, unlike seemingly every crackhead and meth addict the world over, I am unable to create a litter of children. I failed because choices I made to provide a stable, normal home resulted in failures in biology of all things. I failed because I feel like I failed, when anyone with any sense can tell me to just get over it already and appreciate what you have. I failed because even though I can get through a normal day I can’t do something as simple as put one foot in front of the other for the sake of my own health.
I don’t run for therapy. But the depths of my brain disagree.
And Now for the Next
Several years ago my best friend left me. She packed up and moved home, which was the best possible decision she could have made for her worn out self. Before she left I started to miss her so much it was physically painful, but I also felt immense relief on her behalf. After she left I remember sitting with our mutual friends who had remained in town and not scattered to other post-college winds. I felt as though a great tornado or flood has swept through our group, and left only a few of us standing. I felt as though we now stood on the other side of the immensely popular lyric “Our little group has always been/and always will be, until the end.” We had reached the end. It was now hello, hello, hello, hell: oh – on to the next phase of life.
After she left I had to build a new identity for myself. While she was here I had been a part of a small, core group of companions where she was my favorite constant. I had thought of her as fearless, hilarious, intelligent, and dedicated. She was still all of those wonderful things – however now she was also ‘gone.’ Her departure defined a new phase in my young adulthood, leading me to reach out to people I wouldn’t have needed and take risks I wouldn’t have noticed before. I grew; I evolved; I fell in love; I found rewards; I mended the hole that life had torn open. I evolved toward a place of general complacency – which I believed either was or strongly resembled peace.
For me, it is not circumstances but people who challenge and develop me. My apartment fire, my mother’s stroke, having my first lead role in a post-school production, finishing my first marathon – while these are incredible, memorable events from which I’ve learned lessons, they do not yield quite the same strong, guttural affect as another human can have on my life. The loss of my first baby will never, ever leave me. There is the me before the miscarriage and the me after. These two people are not the same. There is the me who was near Sarah and the me after she left: I wouldn’t be the current me had she stayed.
In college I used to look back at the start of each preceding year and marvel at how much happier and healthier I’d become in the past months. The former year felt like a heavy black curtain draped across my entire world – from which I’d emerged more stable, more confident, more accepting, less conflicted. Less sad. A roommate and I dramatically laughed at the phrase “but I am MUCH BETTER NOW, thank you!” which we’d throw out (many times) when chronicling our painful growth. I don’t remember many specific defining moments in college, though, which resulted in this growth – more that the growing occurred incrementally throughout the year. Or perhaps the defining moments were at that time too plentiful to count. I am not sure which is true.
College was, however, such an era of new personal experiences that I still will relate current events to “that time in college” when something similar occurred. Last night, for example, I felt cold. Not just cold for a few moments while struggling through the winter outside, but chilled so thoroughly my body seemed too weak to be able to retain or produce heat ever again. I remember one night, in college, I was out dancing with some friends and we got back home very, very early/late. I started shivering uncontrollably while waiting for the train. I huddled by my friends under a heat lamp to no improvement. I shivered and shuddered the whole ride home, and during the fast, blurry walk back to the dorm. In my room I dove into bed under flannel blankets and my comforter – still wearing 2 pairs of socks, long underwear, jeans, and a wool-blended sweater. I buried my entire body, head and all, beneath the blankets but still shook violently and without cessation. I tried to breathe into my blankets and hands, to hug myself to sleep, to generate warmth, but my entire body had become a shivering icicle. After a half hour, exhausted and desperate, I peeled out of my jeans, sweater, and socks and replaced them with fleece pajamas. I climbed back into bed, crying, teeth chattering, and slowly felt myself return to a more human temperature. Eventually I stopped shaking, and fell asleep.
Last night, at a “farewell and best wishes” sendoff I started shivering about 4 hours into the evening. I could not curb it with alcohol, hot peppers, a knit hat, a down coat, heavy gloves, walking, running, or hugging myself or others. As in college I had a train ride home, during which I shook for the entire 90 minutes. Back at my house I changed into pajamas (having learned from my previous experience that staying clothed apparently doesn’t help) and climbed into my husband’s side of the bed (already warm – his kind suggestion) and wrapped myself with him, flannel sheets, an electric blanket, and two comforters. I shook like paper marble, feeling no warmth, feeling sick until eventually during the night our daughter joined us in bed following a bad dream. Then, finally, I fell asleep. I dreamt that someone I did not know was trying to gift me with an afghan quilt, but that my present was either unfinished or lost. In my dream I was shivering with cold.
Last night on the train ride home I incredibly sat next to someone I’d known briefly in college. We’d worked together at an independently owned café – both of us feeling so superior to anyone associated with ‘corporate coffee.’ It’s safe to say I have not seen or thought of this person in about a dozen years. He does not have a distinctive face, but rather his general presence and frenetic energy tickled the identification in my brain. I am honestly not sure if he remembered me. I’d prefer that he didn’t, so he wouldn’t think me rude for trying to sleep rather than say hello. But he did introduce himself to another passenger, so I am sure he was my coffee coworker. Between him and the cold I felt as if two separate events from college were merging into one extended night.
Last night I said goodbye to someone again. This person is not my best friend, not a mentor, not even someone with whom I closely interacted on a daily basis. But for the past several weeks I dreaded this goodbye. It started as a vague stone in the pit of my stomach; I have tried many times to put into concrete thought exactly why I’ve dreaded this so and cannot. I just know, though, that something final has occurred. My best guess is that, maybe, a crutch has been kicked away from me and I am now expected to really walk instead of faking it with artistic limping. My best guess is that what I’m mistaking now for temporary adjustment sadness is a mirror reflecting genuine malcontent and unhappiness. I am afraid of seeing this unhappiness dead-on. I am dreading the changes and identify shifts I will need to make.
Tomorrow, I hope I will find that I am wrong. That in reality a shift did not occur and that I am a tired, sentimental fool. But until then I think I’ll be here shivering, trying to warm up.
learn other varying emotions
The more life I experience, the more I realize that love’s splendor can be a “many different” thing. Meaning, the love you feel for one person can differ greatly from the love you feel for another. I don’t mean the obvious, elementary differences between “I love my mommy” and “I love my best friend” and “I love my puppy dog.” I mean the I-thought-I-was-grown-up-now flavors of romantic love can vary pretty widely relative to the object of your affection. I used to believe that the more self-aware you became, the deeper and more deliberate love felt. Or, the more feelings like “I-will-die-without-this-person” were upgraded to emotions like “I feel sure” and “this is long-term.” I’m learning though that that thought, like so many other thoughts of which I’ve been certain, was also open to debate. I still believe love, like most other emotions, matures as one develops; however I realize it’s not the precisely linear growth that I’d once thought it was.
I have a book which matches, birthday by birthday, how compatible people are for different types of relationships based on their astrological sign. Each pairing is given a general theme, such as “The Most Perfect Union Ever” or “Ideal Family Bonds” or “The Worst Mistake You’ll Ever Make.” One of my former relationships bore the title, “The Miracle of Manifestation.” A line from the description of the relationship exclaimed that the miracle of the union was the joy at each of us finding the other. My repetition of the line did not do it justice just now; but I can say that I have never had the feelings of a relationship described more perfectly. Not only did I love my lover in that liaison, I loved the love I felt. I loved the love we felt. I loved the special strangeness we shared. I felt as though I’d found a lost, forgotten part of my family; this love was someone made me whole. I loved like a joyful idiot. Even in the face of massive shortcomings and imperfections, this relationship was blindingly beautiful in my eyes. I still consider myself lucky to have lived it.
A friend once asked me to describe my feelings about another relationship. I fought against using the term “just know” to explain how I felt, but think I lost that battle. I’m sure I answered with words like: “what I feel is so strong that I . . . . we just know.” It’s so difficult to describe the state of “just knowing” in more elegant terms. Faerie tales and poems and romance novels prepare us with the flowery language of passionate love. We can blather for several minutes about undying, eternal, sensual, sexual, passionate, burning, yearning, enduring, all-consuming, dragon-slaying flames of romantic love without repeating a cliché. But when it comes to detailing the soft, peaceful, warm-in-the-tummy, sound-and-sweet-in-the-mind feelings of “just knowing,” we’re lost. Maybe “just knowing” contains no drama and therefore gets overlooked the way a ‘good child’ often does when there exists a hell-raising sibling. But to me, that’s the secret treasure of “just knowing” in the depth of your bones that a relationship is constructive and secure. A warm-tummy, thorough relationship lives like a quiet, glowing secret; it’s elusive, indescribable beauty is shared more intimately than a soap-opera drama.
Then, there is an unexpected type of love that steals in and takes over your day. This is a love that occurs in spite of you, a love that surprises you the more it unfurls. I felt a love like this once, but unfortunately I am not good at being surprised. In my experience, feelings of intrigue and affection would pop up like a jack-in-the-box then bob in front of me with colorful, childlike expectancy. I would do my best to ignore them, hoping this would cause them to either disappear entirely or at least pack themselves back up under the lid from whence they’d sprung. I simply didn’t know what else to do with the emotions for which I had not planned nor made space in my life. I couldn’t even examine them long enough to determine if they were truly snippets of love, or possibly something less strong or more fleeting.
These un-expectations, though, affected me enough to carve through my tendency toward oblivion. I remember conversations beginning with typical triviality: conversations necessary to the flow of the day but intended to leave no lasting impact. Then without warning, a thoughts/ideas/random words would be shared and I’d nearly feel the world stop turning for a moment. “What did you just say?” I’d ask, giving the world an attempt to resume its spin and brush the moment away. But invariably the thought/idea/word would get repeated, reinforcing the sensation of having been shaken by my shoulders and commanded to Pay Attention to What Was In Front Of Me. As I said, though, I don’t handle surprise well. My go-to strategy is to carry on with business as normal. I dislike it when this strategy does not work. Therefore, in the moment what I felt most often was an uncomfortable fear. In hindsight, though, I remember these interactions as small gifts, unpredicted but lovely embellishments.
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.