20 Dec 07 Thursday
New Day
Current mood: confident
Category: Writing and Poetry
Sleep seems to have worked its miracle, and I’m feeling awake and ready to bathe in the thick muddy water that is Reality.
When I was younger, in my teens, I had some very very bad days. The world was not my oyster, it was more like my snapping turtle or those rocks in the water at the beaches on the North Shore of Long Island — razor sharp and usually existing only to make painful cuts in the soles of my feet. That was when I discovered the power of “a good night’s sleep and tomorrow will be better.” Not that yesterday was too shabby, mind you, but my brain has a tendency to sprout minuscule gnomes that race around my gray matter knocking into one another and scuffling like barroom drunks. Today they’ve been resorbed into functioning brain cells that have discovered resolutions to nearly everything that had been unsettled yesterday.
Sanity is, in fact, underrated. I’m enjoying mine to no end.
Here’s something I wrote just last night:
[10 PM]
I read poems
to write them
but they do not
come out of me
as planned –
they scratch
just beneath the surface
until the rawness
aches to bleed
but can’t.
All I ask
is my soul back –
the part of me
that lived.
That truly lived.
As I said the other day, I watched a short-ish documentary about Joe Strummer the other night. One of the things he said that I respectfully disagree with had to do with writing songs. He said that some artists say that the songs come out of the ether (or something like that), but he didn’t think that was so; he felt that they had to be forced out, constructed.
But there are two parts to writing: there’s the poetry and the poem; the art and the craft. The poetry, the art, does come from the ether — from the universe, I prefer to say. What Joe was talking about was the craft. He was right; you have to work at it, build it, construct it.
I suppose some writers (songwriters, poets, novelists, what-have-you) have only the craft. There’s no spark. No gift. But a damn fine craft. Others have that spark. That gift. The poetry, the connection to the universe.
Maybe I think too much about these things. But I know the difference. I learned the difference. There are times I write when I’m in an almost trance-like state. I have no concept of the passage of time. When I get to the bottom of the page, I have no recollection of what I’ve written. I go back and am surprised by the words. That’s the best part of writing for me: Being surprised and pleased by what’s come out of me.
On that note, I’m going to go start putting myself together. I’m off to see Jesse Malin at the Mercury Lounge again tonight (I suppose I should write up a little review of Tuesday night at some point. Actually, I’ll do them both on Friday). Unfortunately, I’ll probably miss the first opening band/artist because I’m going in with my cousin Karl and we have to wait until he finishes work.
More later or tomorrow.
–Mary
Currently reading:
Forced Entries: The Downtown Diaries: 1971-1973
By Jim Carroll
Release date: 07 July, 1987
22 Dec 07 Saturday
What I’ve been doing this morning while I should have been doing something else…
Current mood: creative
Category: Writing and Poetry
Well, I did do my cardio. But I was supposed to race out to do Christmas shopping. Instead I wrote this poem. It has no title.
I hate love
at its root
the excruciating struggle
to tunnel
toward sunlight.
I hate the tentative –
the live or die.
I hate love
underground,
waiting to emerge –
the urgency curbed,
the oxygen
beyond breathing.
The loved loved
and hated.
I hate love
until it breaks
ground
and bears.
I’m not sure about it. But I’ve been abundantly pleased with the fact that I’m writing anything at all. Must be a Christmas miracle.
I do know what it is — maybe I’ll talk about it later.
–Mary
Currently listening:
Stick to Me
By Graham Parker & the Rumour
Release date: 09 July, 2001
22 Dec 07 Saturday
Peanut Butter and Christmas Presents
Current mood:drugged
Category: Life
I’ve tested it a few times over the past week and I’ve concluded that I’ve developed an allergy to peanut butter.
This sucks. When I’m doing a lot of weight training, I eat a lot of peanut butter. It’s got protein and good fats. It also tastes good. But now, every time I eat it, I get a headache and a queasy stomach. I suppose I ought to be thankful I don’t go into anaphylaxis. OK. I am thankful that I don’t go into anaphylaxis.
That’s the first part of the post.
The second part of the post is this: I’ve been “wrapping” Christmas presents, if you can call wadding them up into tissue paper and stuffing them into gift bags “wrapping.” They’re covered, which is synonymous with wrapped, so I’m taking that as “yes.”
Most of my Christmas shopping is done throughout the year. I have a pile of nieces and nephews and little cousins for whom I buy gifts. If I try to do it all at once, my bank account goes negative and no one is happy, least of all me.
Later on, TNT is showing The Wizard of Oz at 7 PM (Eastern time). The talking trees in that movie have always disturbed me. Later still, the original Day of the Jackal is on the Sundance channel at 10 PM. No good violent movies or monster movies tonight. What I’d really like to see at some point is Death Race 2000. It’s been a very long time since I saw that. If you’ve ever wondered where the idea of running over people for points originated, see Death Race 2000. It’s very cool.
I might actually post again later. I’m not much for getting work done and I’m nearly finished with the Christmas stuff. My head hurts from eating peanut butter and my phone’s not ringing (though I have gotten a few nice emails letting me know that I can increase the size of my penis while I save a lot of money by buying my medications from a Canadian Pharmacy). Besides, I have so much to say that’s vital to you.
Oh — Tomorrow night my cousin Karl’s band is playing at Blackbird’s Grille in Sayville. I’m planning on taking a ride over for that. If you read this and you happen to be on Long Island, why not come down? It’ll be fun. Really.
–Mary
Currently watching:
The Wizard of Oz
Release date: 19 October, 1999
23 Dec 07 Sunday
Sad Things
Current mood: loved
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
Today I went to Trader Joe’s to get some chocolate for gifts and some flowers. On the way home, I stopped at the cemetery to leave the flowers at my mom’s grave. I’d promised I’d bring flowers back in September or October, but I never did. I’ve been feeling a little guilty about that.
So today I brought a pretty bouquet with white and blue flowers (blue was her favorite color) and some evergreen stuff and a tiny pinecone. It was pretty. The lady in line ahead of me at the checkout said it was pretty.
I moved the last remnants of frozen icy snow off the grass in front of my mom’s headstone and I jammed the flowers into the ground with all my might. I hope they stand there for a while. It’s windy out there.
She’s not there in spirit. But there’s some sort of connection there. Some wire. Some conduit. I talked to her a bit. Quietly. More of a whisper. But she could hear me. The dead are good like that: acutely aware of what happens with the people they love who are left here. I told her about some of my hopes and dreams; the things I still want from my life. I asked her if she could maybe put in a good word for me to facilitate some of those dreams (hey, it’s worth a shot). I told her I miss her, because I do — even after all this time. I thanked her for giving me an undying and powerful sense of hope. I know I got it from her. It’s what kept me alive during all those years I was buried under the rubble of depression.
I asked her to try to see through my eyes when I see my family at Christmas — her sons and her grandchildren. She could use me. It’d be OK. I told her I would try to see everyone with her eyes; to love them for her.
At some point, it began to rain. I was glad she wasn’t alone with her grief, that I was her witness. I knew they were her tears. It may sound fanciful, but some things you just know. I knew.
I wish there was a way for me to truly comfort my mom, especially since now I’m older than she ever got to be. There’s something obscene about anyone dying at 38 years old. It bothers me that we live in a universe that allows it. But live, I do. I’m blessed that I had 10 years with her. Blessed further that I have memories to hold onto, however rose-colored they may be.
For the record (and I told her this, too), the angry poems I’ve written about her, for her and to her were all attempts to make the loss seem less. But the fact that I expended the time and energy to write those poems belies the truth. I don’t think anyone was ever fooled by my cries of sour grapes.
I’d like to end this post with someone else’s words, because they move me whenever I hear them and they are more perfect for my mom than any I have right now:
“The angels love you more than you know.”*
–Mary
(*Thanks for that, Jesse.)
24 Dec 07 Monday
Addendum
Current mood: dirty
Category: Music
I just got back from seeing Karl’s band, which is actually called Step-Side Shorty (it’s a truck? I dunno). It was a lovely night. The band is good. The guitarist is something special. And I really like Meech. My cousin Kenny was doing the sound for them, so I got to see him before Christmas, which was very nice (he’s a sweetheart).
But the best part was getting home and looking up at the sky. The clouds had cleared the there’s a gorgeous full moon. It could mean the tides will be high. Or at least changing.
–Mary
Currently listening:
The Hoople
By Mott the Hoople
Release date: 27 March, 2006
24 Dec 07 Monday
Christmas Eve
Current mood:concerned
Category: Life
Odd that today is sunny and warm. It’s not bad, just odd. It doesn’t feel like Christmas. Maybe later, when the kids open gifts, it’ll seem like Christmas.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dad’s not feeling well. He has a cold, which exacerbates the chronic bronchitis he’s developed. My Aunt Helen went over with a nebulizer and some albuterol. She wrote him a few prescriptions (she’s a Nurse Practitioner). She says he’s wheezing, but that the first nebulizer treatment really helped him. Still, it’s Christmas Eve (day) and my dad doesn’t feel well. He’ll probably stay home tonight and rest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This morning I did some weightlifting. I’m nowhere near where I was in 2005, but I am getting better. Today I deadlifted 30 lbs. (I had been up to deadlifting 103 lbs. in October of 2005). It just takes dedication. Commitment. I feel stronger. Strength is good.
Late this morning I talked to one of my English friends. It was all the “Merry Christmas” stuff. I never sent out cards this year. I haven’t felt the season. I don’t know if it really matters. After the car thing, I’ve just been concerned about money, a concern that doesn’t really lend itself to Christmas joy.
But I can’t wait for tonight. I want to see the full moon again and make some wishes. One doesn’t traditionally wish on the full moon, but it seems to be a good enough idea to me. Besides, that moon has seen everything. It’s watched the Pyramids rise from the earth. It’s seen wars and calamity. It’s spied on lovers in fields and small bedrooms. It’s seen my ancestors and your ancestors. Something that knows so much should be able to grant a wish now and then; I aim to take my chances with it tonight. What’s the worst that can happen? Nothing? Or, I suppose, I might get my wish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just now I’ve been looking through some older poems. So here:
[From 1998]
You appeared last night
in a dream alone
but not
lonely or was it
lonely
but not alone?
All day today
I am thinking
how to care for you
without breaching the distance
without clearing the silence.
I have found it.
And I have no idea when I wrote this. Probably late 1990s:
Silence
the millions
of clattering souls.
Hush the machines,
the din.
Darken the
manufactured light.
And all at once
know.
I have more, but I’m not really in the mood for posting this stuff now. I’ve just called over to The Parents’ house, and my dad sounds terrible. Hoarse, raspy, wheezy. I’ll be staying over there tonight, so I’ll either see him later tonight or tomorrow morning. Please think positive healing thoughts for him. He’s the only dad I’ve got.
–Mary
26 Dec 07 Wednesday
After Christmas
Current mood:a little lost
Category: Travel and Places
Update
My dad’s doing much better. He ended up staying home for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Today, when my stepmom and I got back from Connecticut, he looked and sounded better. He said he felt better, too. I think that’s the best gift I received.
Christmas Eve
We spent Christmas Eve at my Aunt Helen’s house. I ate way too many cookies and felt ill. But Santa showed up (never mind the brown shoes) and made my cousin’s two little girls very happy, if a little bit stunned. By the end of the night, the younger one was so tired she was a zombie (though she somehow didn’t respond very well when I started singing “I Walked With A Zombie” to her … curious).
Afterwards, my brother Mike and his family and I went back to The Parents’ house to sleep.
Christmas Day
Mike made pancakes and bacon and sausage for breakfast, then we opened presents. It was just The Parents, Mike, Robin, Sarah, Jon, me and Maggie the dog.
At 10 AM sharp, Marilee and I left to catch the ferry up to Connecticut. It was very crowded. We had to squeeze into a couple of seats. It took me nearly the whole crossing to get a cup of coffee.
The drive to my sister’s was uneventful. We listend to John Prine. I’d never heard him before; he sounds like a cross between Hank Williams and Bob Dylan. If that could be called a cross and not some sort of evolutionary metamorphosis. I don’t know exactly what album it was, but I liked it.
My sister’s house was the usual bedlam: three Christmas-hyped children under 8 years old. Fortunately, they’d already opened some gifts, so they were distracted. In truth, they were very good. It was nice to see my sister’s in-laws (mother-, father- and sister-in-law). They even got me a present — a well-chosen pair of earrings (big pink rocks!). It’s good that Kris married into such a nice family.
I think Kris outdid herself this time: the food was fantastic. I expected the decorations to out-Martha Martha, and they did.
Everyone had a wonderful day and evening. But I ate way too many cookies and cake (cheesecake!). I’m suffering for it now, going through serious sugar withdrawal. The honey in my chamomile tea is not easing the craving. I’m even having cookie flashbacks. It might have been better if I hadn’t gorged myself on two pieces of pumpkin pie and only-God-knows how many cookies today before we left for home.
Today
This morning was fun, too. Kris and Andrew both had to work, so Marilee and I watch the kids until Kris got home. Aidan and Drew are getting along better than they used to get along. There’s a lot less poking and shoving and fewer shouting matches.
Watching Amelia, I remembered what used to happen when I was a kid. Mike and Mark would get all these cool toys: cars and trucks and active games. I’d get dolls and static games. The outcome? I would want to play with Mike and Mark’s toys. I noticed that Amelia was the same with Aiden and Drew’s things. She wanted to play with the Matchbox car wash and the RC truck. I’ve made a mental note to get her something more active next Christmas. Girls shouldn’t be shoved into traditional gender roles at such a young age. No wonder women are screwed up.
The ride home was as uneventful as the ride up to Connecticut. The ferry was not nearly as full and it took only a few minutes for Marilee to get tea. But we were the second to last car off the ferry in Port Jeff. Oh well.
I stopped in to say Hi to my dad (who really does seem much better) and then I came home, listening to Elvis Costello’s Trust. Thrilling read, isn’t this one?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So here I am at home and I’m thinking I should do something creative. But all I can manage is this lame blog post. I hope tomorrow is a better day. I think I’ll post some of the better pictures from the last two days.
–Mary
PS – Here’s a nice picture from Christmas Eve. It’s my niece Sarah and me.
PPS – I’m listening to the rain outside. It’s very peaceful.
27 Dec 07 Thursday
Non Sequiturs
Current mood: anxious
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes
Good morning.
Today I’m fasting. I O.D.’ed on sugar and everything’s achy. My left knee is puffy and painful. It never occurred to me that sugar is the true culprit. But that’s the only thing I’ve done differently over the last couple of days. So today I drink green tea and water and reflect on what comes next in my life.
I’ve written a lovely letter to someone, but I can’t send it. Or maybe I’m not ready to send it. It’s not time yet. I’m feeling very up and down — I think other people refer to it as “moody.” But, again, I think it’s the sugar. It’s the poor diet. On the other hand, it’s valid, too. I’ve fallen out of practice with some things and I’m recalling what I find distasteful about the Mystery Dance. But I’m determined to master it.
I still don’t know who the hell is reading this blog. One hundred fourteen hits this week. I hope one of them is you.
My cousin Karl noted that I’ve been listening to a lot of Elvis Costello lately. It’s my way of re-tracing the trajectory of my life. Besides, the early stuff is excellent for listening while on the treadmill. Today I listened to Out of Our Idiot. Back when it was released, WLIR used to play “Seven Day Weekend” and “From Head To Toe” quite a bit. I loved WLIR. I even loved it when I was in high school and it was one of the early progressive stations — probably the only one that played “Alice’s Restaurant” on a day other than Thanksgiving. I also listened to WNEW back in high school. That was when my sister-in-law Robin used to do the news in the morning and she wasn’t my sister-in-law.
Somewhere I have an 8-track tape that has a partial recording of a Bruce Springsteen concert from My Father’s Place in Roslyn. It has a song that’s called (I think) “…And Then The Band Played.” Or, anyway, that was the refrain. I always remember the line: “Save my soul, sweet Rock-n-Roll, ’cause I’m sinking fast.”
I had a dream a couple of weeks ago with Jesse Malin in it. It wasn’t about him; he was representative of an aspect of me. At first, I was disturbed by the dream because on the face it seemed to be unflattering and plain weird. It turns out it was a very good dream. I suppose I should tell him about it sometime.
What else? The sky is gray and the full moon that made me feel happy a few days ago is wrecking havoc on my psyche (or at least that’s what one of my horoscopes tells me). Speaking of horoscopes, for some reason the MySpace horoscopes have been “undefined” since Christmas Day, but the AOL horoscopes (which are the same as the MySpace horoscopes) are working fine.
Enough rambling for now. It’s heading up to 11 AM and I need to shower and get moving.
–Mary
Currently listening:
Out of Our Idiot
By Elvis Costello
Release date: 15 October, 1996
27 Dec 07 Thursday
4:30 PM
Current mood: hungry
So far, so good. I ended up having an Aria shake (it’s Designer Whey for women), but I’ve stuck to liquids all day. Granted, it’s only 4:30 in the afternoon, but I feel all right. I’m sipping some very nice Mandarin Orange green tea at the moment. It’s one of my favorites.
This afternoon I took a ride up to Trader Joe’s to spend a gift card I got for Christmas. While I was there, they played “Roll Away the Stone.” It seems that every time I feel like giving up, something in the universe tells me not to. Yesterday, for example, without being specific, my niece Amelia (3 years old) said something that surprised me with its connection to my current state of mind. I pay attention to all these little messages. Whether I ought to is another matter. At least I don’t hear voices. (Aren’t you happy to read that?)
Then, because the universe is cohesive, I got an IM from a friend I haven’t spoken to for several months. Lots of months. She spends Christmas with some friends who always make her learn and sing a song in order to get into the apartment. This year she had to sing “I’m Gettin’ Nuthin’ for Christmas” — which is exactly the song Ian Hunter chose as his nod to the season when he played Brooklyn and Philadelphia earlier this month.
See, it’s all connected in one way or another. You just have to find the right thread to follow. Where’s Ariadne when you need her?
Now if I can only get myself invited to a rockabilly party on Saturday night …
–Mary
27 Dec 07 Thursday
A Little Gem From This Morning
Current mood: tested
Category: Writing and Poetry
Lucky
I’m not the Mona Lisa;
not a doll.
Not to be preserved
or forgotten.
I’m the monster
you fed –
the nightmare that follows you
into morning.
Any time you want to comment on these things, feel free. I’m not doing this for my health, you know.
–Mary
28 Dec 07 Friday
Just some words
Current mood: nervous
Category: Life
I watched a bad Peter Sellers movie last night — After the Fox. It was written by Neil Simon, so you’d think it might be all right. But it wasn’t. I watched the whole thing anyway. Maybe it was funny in the 1960s.
Today is a beautiful sunny day here in Northport. I’ve got way too much to do. It’s nearly the end of the year and I still have to change my name in a couple of places. I also have to deal with some sticky situations. I’m usually good at diplomacy and tact, but sometimes everything’s so raw that I’m afraid no matter how gentle I am, I’ll cause harm.
At least I’ve managed to not gain any weight over Christmas. This morning I was 114 pounds. That’s what I weighed in high school. What’s better is that my bodyfat percentage dropped. I still have a few more points to go, but now it’s really just a matter of sticking with my regimen. I’ve lost four pounds and two percentage points in the last month. I rock.
How weird that today no one has read my blog. Maybe the counter is buggered. It doesn’t matter. I have work to do.
Oh … my new profile picture is my dad and me. In case you were wondering which famous rock star that was.
–Mary
Currently watching:
After the Fox
Release date: 05 February, 2002
29 Dec 07 Saturday
Technical Difficulties
Current mood: frustrated
Category: Web, HTML, Tech
Kee-ripes, man!! I am not having a good technology day.
First of all, the computer keeps doing what I ask it to do instead of what I want it to do. The literal-mindeded ["mindeded"? Jeezaloo! That should read "minded" --MD] bastard!
Next, I succeeded in deleting a bunch of sent messages and I have no idea if the ones that hadn’t been read yet are gone from the planet or just from my outbox. If you don’t get a PM from me, let me know.
Earlier, the treadmill nearly knocked me off onto the floor. Maybe it was that I was singing too much and not paying attention to the change in the pace, but it should know I’m going to do goofy things like that.
My Internet connection keeps fading in and out, too. It goes from “Very Good” down to “Very Low” and back again.
Suddenly no one’s reading this blog. What happened? Have I turned into a social pariah overnight? I still look the same.
I also had a little difficulty updating some of my websites. I got some weird syntax error message. It seems to have worked out all right when I re-uploaded everything. Maybe I should just do yoga all day and forget about technology completely.
–Mary
PS – I’m a little annoyed that pictures don’t work with some of the reading/watching/listening things that you can post on your MS blog.
Currently listening:
Nick the Knife
By Nick Lowe
Release date: 29 December, 1990
30 Dec 07 Sunday
Backstory
Current mood: creative
Category: Writing and Poetry
Remember a few days ago I mentioned a letter I was writing to someone? Sure you do. You hang on my every word. Every syllable, even. Well, it’s become an open letter because I think it bears a good airing. I’m not exactly finished with it, but it needs a little backstory. Hence the title of this post: Backstory.
My life hasn’t been charmed by any definition, unless that definition includes “cursed.” I was born with heart defects and one kidney. No big deal. The heart defects were repaired in two surgeries just before I turned 11 years old. The kidney seems to still be functioning all right 44 years later, so I won’t jinx it.
When I was quite young I remember being anxious a lot. But children often accept how they feel as “normal” because they have no frame of reference. I remember lying on the backyard lawn listening to an airplane drone overhead and feeling that sound dig a trench through my soul. Weird thing for a little girl to remember.
When I was 9, my mom got very sick; she died a couple of months after my 10th birthday. If an airplane’s drone could dig a trench through my soul, my mom’s death was like a blow-torch — it turned my soul to ash.
When your mother dies
there is no emotion
except what you plug up
safely
never to be touched
or tasted.
You see, it is thick
liquid and caustic,
turning to ash
the things you most want
to keep.
Nov. 1998 MRDS
Not long after my mom died, my dad got married to a woman who was, shall we say, a little mentally imbalanced. Eventually that marriage ended in divorce and several of my closest relatives singing a few choruses of “Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead.” Nice people. But it had been a horrific follow-up to losing Loretta, who was well loved by everyone who knew her.
Memory blanks are merciful sometimes; I have few memories of times with my father’s second wife. Of course, the bad ones stand out because we need to remember something. Perhaps the best representative memory of that time was when she (Madam X as a friend and her brothers used to call her) took the fireplace poker and smashed the fish tank where my brothers kept mice. My friend Linda and I raced around trying to catch all of them. There were two adults and three babies. One baby didn’t survive. Maybe I was 12 at this point. Disregard for animals doesn’t gain you any points in my book. It gets you some serious demerits.
I’m not sure if it was my 13th or 14th birthday when the divorce was final. It doesn’t really matter. The point of this backstory is my writing and my drinking and how their marriage ended in disaster.
When I was about 14, I discovered that I write. That’s who I am. I’d been writing for a couple of years by then, but 14 is about when it hit me that I was here to write. I might not have believed in anything else about myself at that time, but I believed in my poetry. In fact, my self-esteem was zero and I was depressed and drinking already by 14, but I knew the point of my existence.
The first time I got drunk I was 11. I don’t know if I was really drunk, but I certainly had a couple of drinks. I was with Madam X’s daughter and some friends. I don’t think I really started drinking then, but that was certainly the ice-breaker. I do remember after the daughter moved out that I would sneak into the liquor cabinet and take gin (which I have always hated) and mix it with Fresca while listening to the Dr. Demento show on Sunday nights. I might have been 12 or 13 at the time.
Madam X’s daughter also figures into the writing. I don’t know how it came about, but I know that I was writing “poems” when I was in sixth grade (that’s 11 years old). I had one of those marble (or, as I call them, static — like on a TV) notebooks. I wrote all sorts of things: stories, poems, essays. It just came out of me. Madam X’s daughter was in high school and had some sort of creative writing class. She had to put together a collection of poems as a project; she included a couple of mine, giving me credit. When the project came back graded, the teacher had written next to one of the poems: “Is she you?” So she thought either the 16-year-old wrote like an 11-year-old or the 11-year-old wrote like a 16-year-old. Or maybe that we both wrote like someone at an age somewhere between the two. I was encouraged.
So here I am, 14 years old, depressed, drinking and writing like my life depended on it. Below is one of the first “poems” I wrote (before then I thought I was writing song lyrics).
Dedication
By day
it will come –
every man
will be blinded
by the atom –
that small
insignificance
will overthrow
the anarchists,
the insurgents,
every man
who asked,
“What is it for?”
and received
an answer: the
sound of a
dead
phone — with
only
the memory
that time once
was and
oceans once
reached
for the
multi-colored umbrellas
that grew from
the hot sand,
which no longer
are, but once
puzzled scientists
and mathematicians
as to their
number.
Mary R. Drews
Apparently, I was pretty good at writing. I got a couple of awards and the respect of many of my classmates and professors while I was in college. I also earned the respect of many hard-drinkers because I could put it away with the best (and worst) of them. I had been having blackouts since I was about 17 years old; I just didn’t call them blackouts. After all, no one remembers what they say. Or to whom they were speaking. At least I remembered where I was. Thus, no blackout. In college the trend continued. Not only was I becoming an accomplished poet, but an accomplished drinker, as well. What a successful time for me!
Climbing the Years
Look, I’m climbing
a ladder. I’m
learning to balance
on this unsteady rung.
Once, it was a game –
step by step, hand over hand,
four, five, six. I never
thought of falling.
Now, I see what gravity does
to those further above
birth — I know about falling:
skin falls first,
then fear of falling
silver-plates the head,
and vertigo makes it
hard to balance, hard
to hold onto the
rungs. Finally, there’s
the letting go –
one hand, one foot first,
then finger by finger,
toe by toe, the last grip
succumbs, balance fails –
they fall.
Mary R. Drews
After college I published a few poems and even had a brief stint as a poetry editor for some college lesbian newspaper (don’t ask — I couldn’t possibly explain because I do not have any recollection of it). My writing got better. In some cases a lot better. It stunned me sometimes. But the drinking downgraded every priority in my life.
Gift
A single rose waits
on my desk.
What have I done now?
What mediocrity is rewarded
with one of those things that die?
I try to be pleasant –
but sludge lingers
in morning air.
I breathe it in
like good oxygen –
holding it until I’m high.
I exhale only
the expected.
This rose is open now.
Another day and the petals
will droop, then drop off
onto the blotter.
I’ll pick up each one,
roll it between my fingers,
and bring the dying scent
to my face.
For a moment — hope.
8/31/87
Mary R. Drews
In time, everything gets washed away. By the time I finally quit drinking (a month before my 30th birthday) I had sufficiently drowned most of what had meant everything to me when I was younger. I had hardly written anything for a couple of years. My time was occupied by going to and from work in NYC and timing my trip home to coincide with a Long Island Rail Road bar car. Another activity was hiding my drinking from my fiancé, Eric. The only brainwork I did was at work. My vocabulary shrank to include only the words I needed every day: erythropoietin, colony-stimulating factor, granulocyte, vodka-tonic.
If my life had been cursed, my sobriety has been charmed. I’ve never craved a drink (though on a few summer days I thought a Beck’s would taste good). I’ve never “slipped.” I’ve enjoyed the clarity. But it hasn’t been all pink fluffy clouds and bonbons. My poetry was gone. I had no drive, no passion for it. My mind used to be crowded by words and images, but it had turned into an utter desert. I was like a chemo patient waiting for my hair to return.
But I always believed I’d earn it back. Maybe with time or the penance of hearing my muses barely breathing, I’d convince the universe that I’m still worthy. But where my concentration used to be like a laser, it had become a dull, diffused light bulb. Words disappeared just as I was about to grasp them. It was like trying to get a speck out of a glass of water: the speck eludes the fingertip.
But I believed. I had faith. I had hope.
At about three years sober I started to spontaneously remember and use words that I hadn’t used in years. It was an early miracle.
Five Years
Clarity is clouding
with tears and crowds
of memories – half memories –
more clouds.
Haze.
The tangible is there,
but the blur keeps it
hanging beyond reach.
Flash. Enigma.
There is nothing
in this world
but moments –
nothing but drops
smudged together
to seem in focus.
Nothing but time
leaving vague glyphs
for deciphering.
MRDS
1998
Every couple of years I’d try to write a poem, but it wouldn’t happen. I’d get a few lines and it would stop dead. Or I’d get out a bunch of words that had no power and weren’t even terribly interesting. The spark I used to have wasn’t there. But sometimes I could sense it in me, just below the surface, just beyond my reach. So I continued to have hope. I waited as patiently as I could. I tried not to panic.
Cancer Is … (no real title)
Cancer is the familiar thief.
Meticulous, willful, stealthy.
It has no conscience –
there’s no need.
It’s a service, tearing
animals from life.
The planet can hold
only so many, after all.
Each one a masterpiece –
stolen.
Not because they stood out,
asking to be taken –
but quiet at night
in front of the TV or
reading a book –
because they were simply next.
December 2002
Mary R. Drews Shefferman
Perhaps what’s worse about all this is that I have also had a few episodes of clinical depression. The first one was in high school. I ended up in free counseling when I was 16. I stopped that when I was about 20. The second bout hit when I was in my mid-twenties. I started therapy again, which I continued straight through until 2005. It helped, but it was never quite enough. There was always this nagging difficulty in everything I did. Life was hard. I was anxious about a lot of things. While I was drinking, that was OK. I’d have a couple of drinks and the anxiety would disappear. Of course, so would any semblance of intelligence, but, hey, I was social!
In 2001 the bottom rose up to hit me very powerfully. Eric (my husband then) was in and out of the hospital with a serious illness. The business we had (Modern Ferret Magazine) was failing. Money was disappearing. Ferrets were dying. Then a few cowardly bastards flew airplanes into the Twin Towers pretty much before my eyes (I was watching the news when the second one hit live and in color). I felt every last remnant of composure drain out of my body like urine.
By Thanksgiving of 2001 I was fighting the urge to hack up my wrists with a box cutter, sometimes preventing only truly damaging cuts.
Cuttings
I know what these marks are for.
I know why I made them.
You don’t even ask; you haven’t noticed
the scars, though I wear them
for inspection.
Unsaid words are better.
The dark marks eye me
like an angry dog.
I think of the work
to get dull blades to cut clean.
I think of watching me
changing my body
to suit my mind
in ways you’d never approve.
July 23, 2002
Mary R. Drews Shefferman
That was when I started on antidepressants. My psychiatrist diagnosed me with major depression (no kidding!) and dysthymia (or dysthymic disorder: read about it here). There is nothing as magical as suddenly having all the brick walls of neurosis and paranoia vanish — without any mental gymnastics. Years of false perceptions fell away and reality all at once seemed a much different place. Ultimately, I’ve gone from thinking that suicide is a reasonable final option to knowing that it is not. For the record, I believed that for most of my adult life.
I’ve been on antidepressants since then. If I’m on them the rest of my life, I’m more than fine with that. You must seek balance wherever and however the universe requires it. Accept the things you cannot change and all that.
So now where am I? Ah … getting closer to that open letter. I’ll have to put that in the next blog post.
–Mary
Go to the second part of this post.
30 Dec 07 Sunday
Brief interlude
Current mood: amused
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities
I’m watching Being John Malkovich — and it is hysterical.
Earlier I watched American Hardcore. I’ll try to remember to talk about it tomorrow sometime.
–Mary
Currently watching:
Being John Malkovich
Release date: 05 November, 2002
31 Dec 07 Monday
My Dad
Current mood: worried
Category: Life
The last I’d seen or heard about my dad, he was feeling a bit better. But apparently that’s not so.
He’s been on an albuterol nebulizer, through a course of prednisone and antibiotics, and he’s still coughing and wheezing. I’ll be going over there tomorrow evening to “celebrate” the new year, if sitting around and commiserating can be called celebrating.
If you can all spare a healing thought for my dad, I would appreciate it. He’s the guy with me in my profile picture.
Thanks.
Mary