Swim for your Life

There’s a scene in Wes Craven’s “Last House on the Left” in which a teenage girl, only just victimized in the worst imaginable ways, runs barefoot and half-naked through a thicket of woods.  We run along with her and our hearts leap with hope as she launches herself off the rocky shore, head first, into a calm, denim-blue lake.  We know she is a competitive swimmer, so we are sure she will outmaneuver the bullets that pursue her, and we watch confidently, holding our own breath in solidarity.  

Her powerful strokes reassure me of the quiet reservoir of strength we possess, even post-trauma.  Especially post-trauma.  When there doesn’t seem to be anything left of us, there is.  When we feel empty and hollow inside our skin, we are not.  

Self-preservation is one part of it, the adrenaline that takes over when just remaining alive is the singular goal of each ten-second interval.  But after the immediate threat has passed and the exhaustion of reflection sets in, there is something inside us that says “get out of bed”, or even “don’t get out of bed … you need to rest.” This intuitive voice can be misleading and lull us into complacency — sometimes it convinces us that we have earned a third Manhattan in our struggle.  That we deserve it.  There’s another strength that helps us discern the message behind the message.

On some level, I think most survivors know that you can’t just hold your breath and hope for the best, for the bullets to whiz past in slow motion.  You have to keep swimming, kicking hard, lungs screaming for air.  Eyes straight ahead to probe the murky depth.  

Best Case

It was always the waking up that surprised her.  Not because she didn’t claim ownership over her own reckless behavior, but because she found that a little sleep, even forty minutes or so, produced just enough conscious distance that she was startled by the evidence around her.  That evidence, usually in the form of vomit (or worse) on her clothes, or receipts, or other sundry items that made it home with her somehow, served to confirm events from the previous night that those few moments of sleep attempted to wash away.  But the evidence was clear and couldn’t be disputed. 

As long as she was alone, she could imagine a “best case” scenario.  And she was almost always alone.  She made it home most nights – clutched that tiny victory of self-control fiercely, like a baby with a soggy cheerio in her closed fist.  Waking up anywhere other than home seemed a double defeat.

On Sleeping and Stravinsky’s Wife

Stravinsky’s wife got the shaft.  She tirelessly championed her husband and musical pioneer, watched as he spent almost twenty years living a double life with his mistress and eventual second wife, passed along her own tuberculosis to her daughter Ludmila, then witnessed said daughter die before she croaked herself.  What a raw deal.

Up until now, I pitied myself a lot.  Felt bad that I’d been through my own gamut of unfortunate events.  But really, it was nothing like Katerina Stravinsky.

I feel a bit guilty, too, for using a work like “croaked” to describe her death.  I’m certain the onomatopoeia is right on, but sadly, I also have no doubt that her demise was prolonged, painful, and very messy.  As she lay in her bed, likely confined to bed for most of her final days, she must have soaked countless rags with spit and coughed-up blood.  Necessarily isolated, and yet still responsible for the death of her daughter, she must have lingered that final year in mental agony matching her physical pain. 

I’m struck by the cavalier nature of my initial reflection.  Is this because I can’t seem to wrap my head around the tragedy of her life?  Certainly, she’s not alone in this standing; every day, thousands of men, women, and children must suffer unimaginable horrors.  But that’s just it - they aren’t really unimaginable.  These horrors are fully real and present, imaginable by those of us who allow ourselves to go down that dark path of the mind’s eye.  No need for visual evidence even, just a quiet union of emotion.  It’s easy enough to come back, to open our eyes to the drawn curtains of morning, with the January sun peeking through.  A sigh of relief might escape between sticky lips and a quick rub to the forearms will liven up frightened and heavy limbs.

Because then it’s morning.  All the beasts of the past are sleeping again and there’s nothing to fear but fear itself.  All that panic may rush in again without warning and flash flood the chest, like consumption, until it can’t draw breath.  But panic won’t kill you, at least, it won’t stop your heart.  My doctor told me so.

Your heart keeps right on beating, right through the fear.  All the way to the last day.  As long as those beasts stay asleep (tiptoes and whispers, but look back, and yes, they’re there), I’ll smile a little because they’re not so frightening, really, purring and cuddled up against each other to stay warm. 

But I’ll kill them yet.

Back to Bed

I didn’t taste the fruit cup on Christmas morning because I was too busy screwing up the rest of the meal.  Turns out the oranges were piercingly tart.

I had it all planned the week before: caramel rolls and eggs benedict for Christmas morning.  Then SOMEONE mentioned that caramel rolls were an X-mas tradition in another, previously married life.  I, of course, instantly vowed never make another caramel roll as long as I live.  So began the hunt for an alternate breakfast pastry that was gooey enough to match the indulgence of the caramel rolls, because my trusty blueberry muffin-making abilities were just too … everyday. 

Nineteen hours and eighty-two crumbcake recipes later, I decided to hell with it: I was making caramel rolls.  So there I was at midnight on Christmas eve, rolling out dough and trying to remember where I hid the stocking stuffers.

They rose too much and escaped from the pan in the oven, oozing butterscotch drippings that made for a sweetly smoky house. 

The handy microwave egg poacher I picked up to make the benedict a snap?  No good.  After the third egg exploded and I was sure everyone would be cursing me in their beds, I abandoned the plan.  I was really looking forward to making blender hollandaise, too.

I tiptoed back into the bedroom and stood beside the Count of caramel. Tears filled my eyes as his fluttered open. 

He cleared his throat a little and squinted at me. “What’s wrong, Smoochie?”

I sniffled, “I wrecked breakfast.”

He reached an arm out to take my hand.  “Oh Smoochie, I’ll make the Kernil’s special omelettes.” Omelettes made to order, for six. 

I sighed and sat on the edge of bed.  My Christmas miracle-man.  Every single day.

Writing for Your Life

I am working like a madwoman.  My day job has become a night-and-day job, and though I love it, I’m exhausted.  I told myself this would be temporary, this crazy schedule — that it was necessary to build my business and cast my net wide to connect with innovative people, but I am running out of juice.

My biggest problem isn’t the fatigue, though.  The biggest problem is that I’m not writing.  The effects of this lifestyle are varied and painful.  I need to get back into therapy soon, if I don’t start integrating regular writing practice into my day.  No time to process, no time to transcribe the voices and conversations in my head.  I’m losing observed moments to time and yesterday.  The cat places her paw gently on my wrist and I feel the pressure of her concern.  Thankfully, that’s recorded now.  Countless other moments have slipped away. 

It’s a bit of a fib to say I’m not writing, though.  I’m writing lots of emails, wiki entries, project management guides, and curriculum materials. I’m also writing loads of cryptic little notes to myself which remind me of the notes I wrote on cocktail napkins back when I was drinking.  Notes that say things like “multiple measures” instead of “raven’s wing” and mean as much the next day.

Speaking of sobriety, my productivity is through the roof right now — I only wish it was peaking in terms of a different kind of creativity.  I have a story that’s on my brain though, which is promising, especially as I do not typically write fiction.  I need to read a little Calvino, perhaps.  Maybe visit Kundera again, as the Velvet Revolution is also on my brain since Havel’s recent death.  I can’t seem to shake it.

This could be a start, this ten minutes here.  Reminiscent of Natalie Goldberg’s advice about taking “X” topic/subject/image and then “ten minutes — GO.”  This could be a good way to end the work day, even if the work day ends after one a.m. and begins again only a few hours from now.  I’ll let myself think about tomorrow’s topic during a snack or shower tomorrow.  If I can manage to squeeze in a shower.

Upon Hearing Footsteps

The neighbors said he was crazy.

When I moved into this house, I knew that the previous owner lived out of state, and bought it for his father. He was selling it because the old man had gone into an assisted living facility.  That’s what the realtor said, anyway.  I also knew that he struggled to take care of the house, leaving it grimy and in certain disrepair.

And then I found the pillow.  It was in the basement, in a cement corner, tucked behind the furnace.  At first, I worried about squatters, wondering if my new home was vulnerable to intruders.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed a curtain around the area, and multiple extension cords leading into the tiny space.  It was like a child’s hideout. 

The next weekend, as I raked leaves in the front yard, Jeff from across the street ambled over and asked, “You find any loose dirt in the basement yet?” He told me that Gunnar, the previous resident, had two lodgers … but only one was seen moving out.

“The guy, he didn’t stay long,” Jeff shook his head, “but the lady, she just disappeared.”  He smirked, “When Gunnar said she skipped out on the rent, but left all her stuff behind, we wondered.” I did too, and took a closer look around.

The couple next door told me how relieved they were that I had moved in.  Apparently, the old guy had called the cops because their front light was too bright.  On the other side of the house, they said he complained about their dog barking, even when the old spaniel was inside.

 Each time I talk with the neighbors, any of them, I hear a new story.  Shots fired into the air in the backyard, his crazy attempt to lay a path using firewood, and that he crashed into the fence, stumbling from the car steaming drunk.

The more I heard, the sadder I became.  More than one person had mentioned that he was a vet, and they speculated that he might be in the protective care of the Veteran’s hospital nearby.  I wondered what combat he’d faced, what terror he’d seen.  The strangeness of the house transformed from creepy to heartbreaking.  I imagined him in the basement, behind the curtain, perhaps with a radio, feeling safe.  I imagined him scared in the nighttime, the blinding porch light peeking through closed curtains.

Art and Yoga

Tonight, as I lay in Savasana, I thought about something my teacher said:

“Yoga makes you a better observer.”

Earlier, she had noted the changing season and daylight saving time — that the studio would be dark before the end of class, and then the dreaded: “it may snow tonight.” I moaned a little with my sweaty forehead pressed to my kneecap, slightly annoyed by the distraction.  She then added, “Hot yoga helps me tolerate the cold better.  In the same way, I tolerate heat better as well.  I don’t judge the hot or the cold, I just observe it.  It is hot.  It is cold.”  

This may also be the case as I deepen my artistic practice.  Admittedly, I’m not reading as much as I’d like, or rather, I’m reading differently.  I don’t read longer works like I used to.  As an English teacher, I read the same works over and over, and that’s enough for me right now.  Can one ever read Hamlet too many times? Things Fall Apart? Brave New World? I’m happy to report that I still enjoy “A Modest Proposal” as much today as I did 15 years ago.  It’s become more relevant for me today anyhow.

An observer? Yes.  Decidedly so.  Distractedly so.  

I can’t watch a movie without tearing it apart by its imagery and locking away turns of phrase that I might weave into some poem.  I heard an anecdote today about a science teacher whose lab experiment went haywire and I made a note to fold it into a story.

Detached from judgment?  I’m not sure yet.  I have always been overtly positive about art — rarely critical, but not inarticulate.  I appreciate a “bad” seventies B-movie, especially in the horror genre, as much as a good David Lynch film.  It’s just a different appreciation (and you can’t tell me he didn’t study those movies, too.)  

It’s art.  Not hot, not cold.  Just art.  Does it matter what the purpose is?  Sure it does. At least, it still matters to me, in the sense that I’m still moved.  Aesthetics is still critical to creating art — otherwise we are like strictly technical jazz musicians with perfect timing but no swing.  No soul.  Of course judgment is still involved in my observation, but there’s judgment about form and technique, and then there’s the life of the piece.  The luminous heart of the work. That which induces a trance-like state for me, not unlike the bliss of a sun salutation.

But thankfully, it will never explain my swoon.

Previously Unpublished

This goes out to all the blogging writers, posting poetry and snippets of prose: You do realize that you won’t be able to submit this work for publication, correct?  

Most publishers won’t consider works that are published on personal websites … which is why I’ve been removing work from this site, after enough time passes for me to not hate it so feverishly.

Don’t get me wrong, the whole reason I set up a blogging site in the first place was to hold myself accountable for a little regular writing.  I wanted to be more active, and write consistently, and then I started thinking it would be nice to interact with other writers. Mostly, my mom commented on my work, each poem my “best yet!” according to her.  

Writing, posting, editing, posting, revising, writing … it was enough to create some momentum and courage.  I kept writing. I kept posting.

I go through phases where I send out work like crazy.  I’m licking envelopes the old fashioned way and submishmashing at the same time.  I make trips to the post office on deadline days.  I get puffed up and confident.  I know it will be awhile until the rejections arrive.  Now it’s time to get serious, for real.

I’ve taken down the old site and made sure this new one is linked to social media sites for purposes of self promotion (you’d better believe it, twenty-first century baby).  It kills me to write a new poem and keep it to myself, and yet I love wanting to share it after so many years of hoarding.  Now I’m not sure what I’m writing for daily consumption, exactly.  Stuff like this, I suppose.  Commentary and reflection, and blah, blah, blah. Just like everyone else?  Thanks, but no thanks?

The golden age of letter writing has passed.  Now, we document grave and trivial moments in 140 or fewer characters.  Margaret Atwood referred to social media and blogging as modern diary keeping — it’s just public now.  We are all exhibitionists. 

I’ve been avoiding my nonfiction goals for almost four years.  I just need 35 pages of text to circulate, but it’s been killing me.  I guess here is as good a place as any to hold myself accountable once again.  Just don’t be surprised if the posts disappear after a few weeks.  

Mad Hot 60-Second Write

He looked so nervous just standing there that I put down whatever I was holding to embrace him.  I was not used to reaching up so high.  It was the second time I touched him. 

The air outside was so cold, it slapped the back of my throat when I inhaled.  He said he would drive backwards all the way to Duluth with me.

Thursday in the Stationwagon

I’m sorry for saying I didn’t like it

It’s OK

I’m sorry if I made you feel bad about it

You didn’t

I was just jealous of the others

Really?

Yes. The Mike Lewis one, mostly.

Really?

Yes.

No.

I want you to be honest with me

Then that’s the one I’m jealous of.

OK.

I want my head to be heavy, too

But I know now that there’s different kinds of heavy

That’s true

Different styles can both be heavy

I want your honest opinion

But you gotta know that I don’t know

It’s like handing you Hamlet

Right

Saying, “read it, let me know what you think”

I didn’t understand a lot of what I saw tonight

I didn’t understand a lot of what we saw tonight

We are going down this alley.

Can we get out?

Like those toes

I didn’t like those toes.

We can take Upton

Down Upton

Over on Upton

And the toes,

They were schmaltzy.

There was something going on

And if we knew what her head space was like

We might say—

But should we have to know?

Should it need to be explained?

I needed Picasso explained

I needed to watch him paint

Picasso

And when I did, I saw how sick he was.

I understand Pollack more from learning about him

I don’t like Pollack

It’s not about liking, rather

Understanding

But I don’t really know.

Watch out.

What was it?

Birds. You missed them.