I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks,
the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips aglow in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of,
you are going to want to die. I want to go
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,
but I don’t do it. I want to live. I
take them up like the male and female
paper dolls and bang them together
at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to
strike sparks from them, I say
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.
Sharon Olds, “I Go Back to May 1937” from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002. Copyright ¦copy; 2004 by Sharon Olds.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
blindsided
What do you do when someone reads the cards you thought were so well hidden. When you realize all the work you've done was on your head and there's so much more to do on your heart. I wasn't expecting this in a work day, for someone to notice and make me feel anew the hollowness within me. At least its been identified, this reason I've felt adrift. Validated and recognized by an outsider, next on the agenda in caring for that which is me.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
making room
In my various incarnations as a working girl I worked in an orthodontist's office. It was a fascinating experience on many levels, but mainly on learning the mechanics of the human mouth.
Did you know the human bite is the most germ ridden? Its theorized that the germs and bacteria of the mouth are there to defend against anything that would try to attack the system, to kill that which would try to kill. In working orthodontia what was fascinating to me were the barbaric things we do to our mouths in the name of beauty and symmetry.
For instance there is a contraption used in orthodontia called an expander. An expander is used when the patient doesn't have enough room for all the teeth intended (by their body) for their top palate. The patient in question has to be within a certain body age, or else this won't work. The expander is installed into the soft upper palate, its generally secured by rings of metal which are forced around the back molars. Its the caretaker's (mother or father generally) job to insert a small key into the expander once or twice a day, they then turn the key expanding the expander. Now, this hurts. This really fucking hurts. If you're kid is a whiny prima donna, you may or may not have the guts for this. This is not soft, feely, mwah mwah, kinda parenting. This is not nice, this is probably not approved by therapists, this is hard (but worth it). The patient ends up with more pronounced cheekbones and being able to keep all their teeth.
I also think this is an amazing metaphor/simile/etc/etc/etc. If actions like the expander aren't taken you have to get teeth pulled, yes thats painful, also destructive and unnecesary if you're willing to put up with lesser pain for a longer amount of time. The expander makes room for the new, the inevitable. While keeping space for the old. It painfully forces the patient to make room for what is to come. Just like life. But if I can do the work, put up with the lesser pain than I can keep the old and make room for the new. Which is preferable to the mouthful of blood involved with the alternative.
Did you know the human bite is the most germ ridden? Its theorized that the germs and bacteria of the mouth are there to defend against anything that would try to attack the system, to kill that which would try to kill. In working orthodontia what was fascinating to me were the barbaric things we do to our mouths in the name of beauty and symmetry.
For instance there is a contraption used in orthodontia called an expander. An expander is used when the patient doesn't have enough room for all the teeth intended (by their body) for their top palate. The patient in question has to be within a certain body age, or else this won't work. The expander is installed into the soft upper palate, its generally secured by rings of metal which are forced around the back molars. Its the caretaker's (mother or father generally) job to insert a small key into the expander once or twice a day, they then turn the key expanding the expander. Now, this hurts. This really fucking hurts. If you're kid is a whiny prima donna, you may or may not have the guts for this. This is not soft, feely, mwah mwah, kinda parenting. This is not nice, this is probably not approved by therapists, this is hard (but worth it). The patient ends up with more pronounced cheekbones and being able to keep all their teeth.
I also think this is an amazing metaphor/simile/etc/etc/etc. If actions like the expander aren't taken you have to get teeth pulled, yes thats painful, also destructive and unnecesary if you're willing to put up with lesser pain for a longer amount of time. The expander makes room for the new, the inevitable. While keeping space for the old. It painfully forces the patient to make room for what is to come. Just like life. But if I can do the work, put up with the lesser pain than I can keep the old and make room for the new. Which is preferable to the mouthful of blood involved with the alternative.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
7/26/07
the smell of his leather
the crinkle of deli flowers
my eyes meet mine in the motorcycle mirror
and I feel at ease
the crinkle of deli flowers
my eyes meet mine in the motorcycle mirror
and I feel at ease
contract
I have had a hard time getting work done today. I think I spend most of my time dawdling, looking for something which is integral to my work, or fucking around on the internet.
Here's the thing, I have a good work ethic. I am intelligent, motivated, and hard working... Under the right circumstances. The job I do right now requires little to no brain power, has even less structure, is monotonous and is overall fucking lame. The job I will start again in a few weeks changes all the time, is emotionally rewarding, requires me to be on the ball and to strive to be better each day. It also provides me with a salary vastly less than what I need. Soon I will not be able to depend upon my mother for financial assistance and I've come to a crossroads. Do I stick with the job I love, entry level though it may be. Or do I rejoin the corporate world and make at least 20% more a year.
I don't think I can even make this decision this year. I've promised so many kids I would return. I can't break those kind of promises, I tear up just thinking about it. Even though I panic at the thought of scrambling to make ends meet I can only have faith that I will be taken care of.
Here's the thing, I have a good work ethic. I am intelligent, motivated, and hard working... Under the right circumstances. The job I do right now requires little to no brain power, has even less structure, is monotonous and is overall fucking lame. The job I will start again in a few weeks changes all the time, is emotionally rewarding, requires me to be on the ball and to strive to be better each day. It also provides me with a salary vastly less than what I need. Soon I will not be able to depend upon my mother for financial assistance and I've come to a crossroads. Do I stick with the job I love, entry level though it may be. Or do I rejoin the corporate world and make at least 20% more a year.
I don't think I can even make this decision this year. I've promised so many kids I would return. I can't break those kind of promises, I tear up just thinking about it. Even though I panic at the thought of scrambling to make ends meet I can only have faith that I will be taken care of.
Quote of (Yester)day
"How could you have neglected to tell me that your cats were nursed by a dog?"
From one co-worker to another. Which resulted in the tale of two kittens whose mother had ran away who were then adopted (and nursed) by a dog.
From one co-worker to another. Which resulted in the tale of two kittens whose mother had ran away who were then adopted (and nursed) by a dog.
O Tell Me The Truth About Love (W. H. Auden)
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
W.H. Auden
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
W.H. Auden
We Who Are Your Closest Friends (Phillip Lopate)
We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
Patrick
I sit on the bed in the beige light of the hospice and turn the pulpy pages of the book. One hand holds the glossy slick cover breaking its spine with my grip, and the other holds his warm dry hand.
The story I read is a dime a dozen love story that fails to distract from the rattle in his chest and the shallow breaths he draws. I refuse to believe he will die, though he hasn't said a word since I came in. As the hero rescues the abused dog and the heroine throws out a witty one liner I start to slide my hand from his. He grips my hand tight, and I stay. I never saw him again.
Most people thought he was Irish because of his first name, Patrick. They didn't realize it was a name given to him by teachers who couldn't pronounce his Italian one, a name I know longer remember. He had a talent for telling the truth no matter who didn't want to hear it. He was an artist who never got discovered, and an alcoholic who never got sober. He thanked his addiction for his son. A son who was the result of an affair with a woman he never stopped loving.
The first time I saw him he was introduced by a pointed finger "That's Patrick, you can say anything to him".
She pointed to a man stooped slightly with age, only when he wasn't pulling himself up with pride, or leaning against a parking meter smoking a cigarette. His hair was white, wispy but still retained the wildness of youth. His eyes were sharp though clouded a blue-brown, his nose large and Italian.
I can't say when he took me under his liver spotted, nicotine tinged wing, but I fit in there perfectly. He pushed for me to be heard, pushed for me to be okay, he loved me like the father I'd lost and that love carried me through one of the harder years of my life. His presence was the one right in a life of insecurity. Now, when I walk past a window that shows my reflection I remember him walking beside me saying "Yeah, we look good kid."
The story I read is a dime a dozen love story that fails to distract from the rattle in his chest and the shallow breaths he draws. I refuse to believe he will die, though he hasn't said a word since I came in. As the hero rescues the abused dog and the heroine throws out a witty one liner I start to slide my hand from his. He grips my hand tight, and I stay. I never saw him again.
Most people thought he was Irish because of his first name, Patrick. They didn't realize it was a name given to him by teachers who couldn't pronounce his Italian one, a name I know longer remember. He had a talent for telling the truth no matter who didn't want to hear it. He was an artist who never got discovered, and an alcoholic who never got sober. He thanked his addiction for his son. A son who was the result of an affair with a woman he never stopped loving.
The first time I saw him he was introduced by a pointed finger "That's Patrick, you can say anything to him".
She pointed to a man stooped slightly with age, only when he wasn't pulling himself up with pride, or leaning against a parking meter smoking a cigarette. His hair was white, wispy but still retained the wildness of youth. His eyes were sharp though clouded a blue-brown, his nose large and Italian.
I can't say when he took me under his liver spotted, nicotine tinged wing, but I fit in there perfectly. He pushed for me to be heard, pushed for me to be okay, he loved me like the father I'd lost and that love carried me through one of the harder years of my life. His presence was the one right in a life of insecurity. Now, when I walk past a window that shows my reflection I remember him walking beside me saying "Yeah, we look good kid."
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