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Karaoke.

I just don’t know about this one. I cannot relax at karaoke; I haven’t…

Tomorrow is the first day of the new school year. The kids don’t come to my school until the 11th. I am not in a good mood. From what I hear, no teacher is…I think it’s time to pause and do this later. I am beyond uninspired. I just don’t care about much. Would rather run. I think I’ll go for a run. Sometimes I structure all my time for the thing that comes after. I’ll do this so then I can do that. So right now the idea is I write and respond to an email and then file some papers, maybe finish roasting the squash (so I can eat vegetables during the work week) and then go for a run and then maybe I’ll be in a good mood. I’m not angry; I’m mostly irritated. Irritated that other people expect me to do my job and the nature of my job involves a lot of unplanned time and when I’m nervous I like to plan more, not less, but there’s not a lot I can plan until the kids actually arrive and so I’m irritated. I’m irritated about some decisions that have been that will make my job harder. Most of the things I felt so in love with and positive about at the end of last year feel totally foreign and forgotten. Everything is kind of annoying.

So yes. Perhaps. I’m having a bit of a tantrum. It seems really stupid to display this in any place that another human being might see it.

This is the thing: the reason I can’t do karaoke is that I can’t relax. I feel completely conscious of how I appear and sound and I just can’t shed it. So I keep on saying yes when I’m invited to go because I think the fact that it’s difficult for me means that I should do it. This is how I respond to many things that are difficult for me, though clearly not all, based on my above response to going back to work. And this writing now too, feels like performance.

I keep on coming back to this notion…how to stop performing?

I am exhausted by my own efforts to please people. It is such a completely stupid and ridiculous thing to do. And this is what my head does: the only way to be good at karaoke is to stop trying to be good at it. So, stop trying. Now. How about now? Stop thinking about it. And…now.

Alcohol only exacerbates it and also I’m trying not to use substances like that anymore anyway.

I do, however, think that bringing my advisory to karaoke would be supremely fun and in order to help them relax, I would myself just go for it and relax. It reminds of how I once took my little god-sister shopping when she was 14 or 15. When we were trying on clothes I saw her being self-conscious about her belly and her hips and I decided right then and there that I would not even remotely feel those thoughts. I wouldn’t pretend not to feel them, I actually would not go to that place in order to set a good example for this budding lady and her budding consciousness. In fact, I would have done anything to circumvent those thoughts for her, the weighing and measuring of skin and curves, would have done anything to make it so that she would never ever feel or think them. I don’t think I did much to prevent those thoughts for her, but it did happen that in trying to give her that freedom I managed mostly to give it to myself. I was kinder to myself then I had ever been in a dressing room.

So this is cute; the logic and the full circle and it amazes me how the words take me where I wanted to go…because, one might say then, that perhaps I should be working with youth right now. Perhaps teaching gives me more then I can give myself. Perhaps it’s time for me to take some kids to karaoke.

1992.

This poem was published anonymously in the Exeter, New Hampshire town newspaper. I clipped it from the paper in the summer of 1992. I turned eleven that July. I'm just realizing, I think this poem is the reason I always capitalize North, South, East and West. I taped it to the inside of the front cover of my journal. I'll only keep this one journal through most of high school, though I will use others for the poems. I'm not sure, but I think this journal might be appearing again in these Sunday entries. For today though, the poem. I didn't realize also, the lines are in my head. I didn't know I'd memorized them. But pause now, leave these lines behind, and enjoy...

West of the sunset

Stands our house

There and East of the dawn

Seven seas are to sail our ships

For we are the Vagabonds.

The roof must have a rakish dip

To shadowy eaves where the rain can drip

In a damp persistent tuneful way

It's a cheerful sound on a gloomy day.

We work a shingle loose somewhere

To wail like a Banshee in despair,

When the wind is high and the Storm Gods race

And we are snug by the fireplace.

Back at it. Sunday. Babies and bodies.

The new plan is a weekly one; a post every Sunday, and again the rule, one hour to write and click "publish."

And a quick shout out to B.C. for asking me, simply, any posts coming?

And so to get on with it...

***

Ladies are having babies now. And if they're not having babies, they're beginning the reckoning. When and when will be too late and also this fact: We have no control over this process. The only decision we have any say over is when to stop using birth control. And that's about it. And also another person has to agree to it too. At some point or another, sperm has to involved.

One element of all this that has been on my mind is the body. The reality that being pregnant means another being, another entity, another something taking over and my decisions for my body no longer being only for myself, but for this other living thing depending on me, immediately, for survival. And technically it sounds terrifying. The pressure of it, for one, and then the loss of autonomy and the loss of will and the loss of independence. The loss of self.

But here's the thing: It doesn't feel terrifying to me. It feels like a relief. It feels like an escape from my own body and my own brain. All the rules would be laid out for me...No alcohol, no coffee, sugar not a good idea, no smoking, no drugs, sleeping probably, exercise, taking care of myself not for me, not for my own sake, but for the sake of the baby-to-be, the future person.

My body as it is now, my body as the carrier of me, my body as the container of my mind and emotions and spirit and intangible self is one I struggle to care for. Is one I've struggled to care for since puberty began keeping me up at night, staring at roofs, wanting desperately to be out, to be gone, to be running, to be roaming. A restless wind, indeed, it found me then, and has been with me most days since. Made immobile by the rules and regulations of being a child (and being a teacher now, I now know that being thirteen is indeed being a child, no matter what I thought then), I found other ways to roam.

The first time I tasted alcohol I was 13 or 14 and I got drunk. And then I got really drunk a few times a week for a decade. My first cigarette was at 13, and that worked better then all the rest, and I smoked a pack a day, give or take 10 in either direction, for eleven years. Also, I snorted ground up Ritalin and Aderol. Once in a blue moon, I snorted powdered tobacco. I've eaten mushrooms in order to rearrange my sight and perception of all things. I've snorted quick bumps of cocaine. I've swallowed pills. I've skipped breakfast. I've eaten until my stomach felt like it would burst open. I've drank only coffee for an entire day. I've skipped sleep. I've run miles in zero degrees December (though the sun on the snow really was lovely). I've run up and down flights of stairs ignoring the pain that shot across the top of my foot as I imagine an electric current would. I've eaten chocolate when I was tired, and drank brandy when I was awake. I've taken cold and sinus pills when I had the flu and swallowed Zantec when my stomach hurt. I've ingested hormones to not get pregnant, and I've swallowed other hormones in case I had gotten pregnant. I've walked miles in high heels that left blisters on every toe. I've lain in the sun until my skin peeled off in feathery wisps. And all these things, and more, I've done because of a way I wanted to feel, because of a thing I wanted to do, a sensation I wanted to produce, a life style I wanted to be, and there was always a good reason, and 99% of them, still, to this day, I don't even regret.

For a second, a week, a few weeks, I thought I wanted to be pregnant right now (and maybe I do, and there's a part of me opening to the idea like a pristine, new envelope), but then I figured out that that wanting was in large part a desire to quit as being the boss of me.

I wanted to resign, and in my stead, put that tiny clump of cells in charge. That smaller-than-miniscule-something, that potential for life, I figured I'd listen to that. I'd do what those cells said. I'd give up on my best notions and lay them all aside and for the first time ever, stop trying to figure out how to live in this body, and finally just live in it.

It just sounds so peaceful.

But I am not pregnant yet. And I don't even know if I can be pregnant. Broken-condom fears aside, I don't think I've ever been pregnant.

For now, I am the only one residing in this body.

The question now, the question I think I should answer before I allow those sperm to rain down on my fertile plains, is can that be enough?

Or really it's the question I've been asking since, yes, puberty: Can I be enough?

Or wait. This is it.

Am I enough? Am I enough as I am? Am I enough as I am right now?

Birthdays and...

I stopped doing this for a while. I don't know why. I got tired.

I am 31 and I'll be 32 in July, and my honey turned 33 yesterday. As it happened, I spent the end of my twenties watching my grandmother move slowly towards death. My honey and I got married when I was 28 years old, and then we went to Europe for two months, spending every dollar given to us for the wedding. I know the idea is to create a nest egg, or create a nest for a future egg, but those two months were our version. Neither of us doubt that decision. We could have stayed longer then the two months; could have begun crashing on couches, our friend has asked some of her friends if we could stay with them, and even though we were strangers to them they said yes because they'd been travelers too. But we didn't know that, in part because we were running out of money and didn't have the tickets home yet, and in part because my mother had called with frightening news. My grandmother whose new hip had worked so beautifully over the summer had taken a sudden and dramatic turn for the worse. It came in the form of pain. Old nerve damage from shingles and something new in her back. My grandmother, my mother reported, had told her that she was ready to die.

My grandmother helped raise me. She was always there, and even during the years when we did not live in the same place, I knew I would be with her every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Summer. When she eventually moved into the city where my mother and I lived and I took ever slower walks with her, I realized that there were whole months that I had not experienced with her until then. September for example, the time of back to school. Also May and June. The months without vacations were months that we had never experienced together until she moved closer; something she did, of course, knowing it would be her last move. She was healthy when she made that move, but we all knew it was to bring her closer to us so that we could care for her when the time came. The time came sooner then we all expected it to. When the pain began for her, vicious pain that confounded many forms of painkillers, contorted her face, left her panting, literally panting, I realized I wasn't going to be able to do two things...I would not finish the book before she died, and nor would I get pregnant and introduce her to a great grandchild. I had always assumed that both these things would happen. And then I came back from my honeymoon and I saw her curled into her bed in the shape of a snail's shell and I knew I would not be able to do either.

She was dying for two years and it did not get easier. The pain did ease for long stretches, but there was no question that she was ready. She loved us but she was ready and I became more mute in the face of it because all I wanted was for her to stay. Selfishly, stubbornly, terrified, I just wanted her to stay. Or rather, I just wanted time to stop moving her away from me. Sometimes in her apartment I sat by her bed and watched her and all I saw were visions of her as a younger self; in her 60's, trim grey hair, large glasses, in motion, fashionable, setting the table.

The first years of my marriage, the last years of my twenties...sadness like water seeping up through a crack in the bottom of a boat. If I can let go, once and for all (hah) of the idea that there are right feelings to feel at any given moment maybe I can stop trying to seal up that crack, and let it come, just let that water come.

There is nothing more fundamental, more basic, than loss. We all know it will come. And so, diving in, saying it, that I miss her, that I'm sad...Now I'm reaching to tie the water, and the boat, and the sad together. I'm in Long Island. Sculptures everywhere and paintings, including those painted by my friend's father who died a few years ago now. I notice it took years for them to throw away his paints in styrofoam cups, the colors that were uniquely his that he had mixed himself, and that no one will ever be able to create again. They're gone now, and I think were gone the last time I came too. Two friends just arrived by car, they're getting the tour, I'm going to go join them all. That's it. I feel happy too.

My Ears Are Ringing (Written Last Saturday at 3:34 AM)

This is not a continuation of The Perfect World series; that is to come, and it will come, but something else tonight.

I went dancing tonight, at the Rub, but the new Rub. The old Rub was the Southpaw Rub, the original one, which I did not go to all that much before I started bartending it. This ringing in my ears right now, it is the sound I felt every first Saturday of the month for a few years, only if it was 3:34 then it would mean the work was just ending and the play just beginning.

One night after we kicked everyone out me and my friend (not the dancing friend) who also bartended decided to make gin martinis and that night we got in a big fight and said hurtful things to each other and when I got home I lay down in my coat and cried and I didn't know why exactly. My mother in law (who owns the brownstone) was paying for our floors to be re-sanded and waxed and so we were sleeping on her parlor floor and our room was full of fumes and a bare mattress on the frame and that is where I went when I got home. The light was 7 AM and grey dawn and I lay on my back in my coat with my ears ringing and my feet on the floor.

But it was only the one time we argued and most first Saturdays we kicked all the patrons out at 4 (finally) and drank our drinks and relaxed and counted piles of red bull splashed ones and when we left we opened the doors to the street and birds chirped and the air was chilly and my feet hurt so that it was painful to walk home but I walked home except for the time Paul and I shared a car service and found a fifty dollar bill on the floor of the car and split it and he talked about his father and I talked about my grandmother.

Tonight was epic. My lady friend and I have been friends for twenty years. 20. We were eleven when we met. It was all in, and I heart Rhianna, and I laughed hard enough to lose the ability to breath in.

It is so strange that sometimes I can't know a thing has ended until long after it is over. I like to mark last occasions, and I like to make an occasion out of anything I can. My ears are ringing and I haven't had this feeling for a hot second. I've been in this assumption that I lost valuable time, especially these last two years, and that I needed to get that time back. But this feeling, it is so familiar to me, the tired, the late night, the ringing, and the muscle tired and I thought I wanted more of it, and I do, sure, yes, but also...I'm not saying this right...also...something about how familiar this is, this sound, my ear cells dying...

In the movie Children of Men Julianne Moore says that the ringing of your ears is the swan song of the dying ear cells; these sounds I'm hearing right now are the frequencies that I am losing the capacity to hear as I type. I'm going to go to bed, and when I wake up my ears will be quiet and these tones right now will never be heard again. But the sound now is more of a bother then the silence will be tomorrow.

All I'm trying to say really is that sometimes I've thought I haven't done enough in my life; haven't gone to enough parties, haven't traveled enough, haven't done enough to be able to move on. But tonight with this sound, so familiar, felt a million trillion times before...if something else is beginning something else is ending and all right all right all right. Right now I don't mind.

A Perfect World is a Small One; Part I

So. There is also this story. I think I’ll tell it in parts. I’m not sure how many it will take, but this is Part I. So. To begin again, this is…

A Perfect World is a Small One; Part I

I thought I was too much of a feminist to have an eating disorder. So much so that even while it was happening I didn’t know. I used to think denial meant knowing something and lying about it. I now know that denial is something much stranger and more subtle. Denial, you see, is a secret you keep from yourself.

It was an easy secret to keep because to have the thing I had, to be the thing I was, was impossible. There was no way I could be that woman. It went against everything I believed about myself and all the principles I preached. I can’t even use the word now; not yet at least in these first sentences. And you want to know why? Because I think that anyone who knew me then, if they read this, will think, “But she wasn’t skinny enough to be _______.” I’m kind of embarrassed I wasn’t good enough at it. Perfectionism applies to all things. (Even when I had the flu, it wasn’t until I was diagnosed with “The Influenza” did I feel like I’d really knocked the being-sick thing out of the park.)

My poor honey knew though, and it was a secret he kept from himself too. He was the one who had to watch it up close and listen while I catalogued the foods I couldn’t eat. “Look,” I showed him, “at the shape my hips make.” And he tried to explain it to me, “You’re always beautiful; you’ve always been beautiful.” But I could not hear him, and it did not satisfy me. I wanted him to admire it with me, the plane of my flat belly sloping up towards the cliff edges of my hips. That was a new shape and I had carved it myself and I was proud of it. I wanted him to commend me on my accomplishment, but, of course, he would not.

Reassurance for myself after a sudden bout of wanting to quit my job. It's good though; this was the first one in a month.

The plan didn't work out as planned.

Which means I'm in uncharted territory.

Which means it's an adventure.

Which I like.

After a Wednesday in Williamsburg.

Julia Child said a cook should never apologize; I'm deciding that the same is true for a tumblr blogger, despite the fact that it seems that it's been a second since the last post and I was on such a roll too. And despite the fact that apologies are always so tempting, odd excuses in advance. "Don't take this the wrong way but..." Have you ever thought about how unnecessary apologies are actually quite manipulative? I think about it because I'm trying to cut out all such "sorry"s. Have you noticed yet that this is in fact all one long excuse in advance? Aye.

Today's time limit: 15 minutes. I have to go to bed.

I went out dancing this Wednesday night and the surprise of my friends upon seeing me did not speak well of my last, and I want to say six months, but being honest, my last two years. However, what I'm going to focus on instead is how sweet it was to be happily seen. Surprise then gladness.

A lot of times, and I get it now, the writing that was so admired as a discipline had in fact become an excuse to hide from the world. Yes, I'm going to be tired at work tomorrow. But I've been tired one million trillion times from insomnia. I'm also deciding that some of that insomnia can be recast as creative energy. A year plus ago I bought this self-help book that is the mother of all self-help books. "You Can Heal Your Life." I did not embark on it's full program of affirmations, but in one section it listed affirmations that could heal you of various physical ailments. This is the one for insomnia: "I lovingly release the day and drift peacefully to sleep, trusting tomorrow to take care of itself." For about a week, I thought I had found the magic talisman cure, and in thinking that I told a lot of people about it and I think by doing so I dispersed the magic too far and wide that's why it then stopped working.

And...time's up. Sorry.

Thursday late night thoughts on a Friday afternoon dark enough to look like night again.

I'm too Friday afternoon dazed to be coy so I'm just going to jump right in where my thoughts left off last night around 11...

I think there's this wellspring of talent in me that I can almost reach. Almost. Almost almost almost. I've written well before-even written really well before-but I haven't tapped into those gorgeous waters yet. And I've tricked myself before (and this could get convoluted) into thinking that my writing is just fine and my criticism of it is just being a perfectionist and no one can judge their own work fairly and so on. But I think that's self help manipulated into an excuse. I know I can be better at this then I am. The words are waiting for me. I just can't quite get at them yet.

And I've tried. I've put in the time. Hours and hours and hours. I've turned down higher paying jobs in order to get at that time. I've canceled plans. I've carried notebooks on vacations. I've woken up early and stayed up late. I've drank the best coffee. I've drank no coffee. I've exercised and stopped exercising, meditated and prayed and lit candles. Mostly it was the time though. I thought I could use hours to chisel away at the something that keeps me from that well spring. I thought I could will my way to those words.

When an agent says no.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

So there's that. And the icy belly doom feeling with the words that follow all the compliments and begin with "but."

"...but I don't think..."

Today was a full day. Morning advisory: I'm doing one breathing exercise every day with the kids and today was the fast belly pumping breath of fire and when I demonstrated they all laughed at me. Which happens whenever I try to lead them into embarrassing, out of the norm, territory and which I don't mind actually because that's part of what I'm supposed to do. 1st period: I set up in the art room and ended up conferencing about tomorrow's first meeting of the Insecurities Club and looking up how to make a book out of once piece of paper. None of this being the prep work that I had intended to do. 2nd period: costume design for the play. It was good. We made a lot of progress. Then Zine meeting, also positive, next week we're going to write a position paper on the issue of the extended school year. The kids asked me to submit a piece. They love my writing. It's nice to have fans. One asked me what I thought of the games she posted to the site and I may or may not have given her the impression that I looked at the site over the break, which would not be true. Which means I owe some kinds of amends (even if it's in spirit only) because my intention is to not tell even white lies. Then ten minutes to make copies, and then a half hour meeting with one of my supervisors and we're working on the best ways for me to teach a girl to read. A half hour for lunch. Ten minutes spent in the sunshine drinking an unnecessary latte. I was up to my free, tenth coffee and I couldn't resist. Poetry intensive at 1. This was quiet, but I'm hoping that I changed their lives forever and they're just not ready to talk about it yet. Last period I worked on the cover of this book I've told my advisory I wanted to make for us, and while I worked on it one of my advisees was vaguely hostile in this way that could maybe be a joke and maybe be completely genuine. To close the day, back in advisory, four of the students are pissed and the whole meeting was spent discussing how I'm too strict and they have to follow rules that no one else does. On the inside, I actually kind of felt like crying because I hate being criticized maybe more then anything. I held my ground though. Then a student reminded me her rec letter was due today. They left for clean up without a backwards glance or a goodbye. I went to cover pick up with the young kids and read them an excerpt of "The Emperor's New Clothes." Mostly they listened. They got picked up one by one and some of them said goodbye and some of them didn't. By 3:30 they're all gone. I check my email. The agent has written.

Corn bread.

First day back at my J-O-B and the founding of the Insecurities Club.

Sometimes I write just because of the weird pleasure it gives me to arrange these words across a screen. Who knows why it is or why this pleasure is mine. I do wonder who made me this way, this particular way, the things in me that are not traceable to my parents, or my childhood, or my school, or my grandmother, or my city, or any damn thing. I just like words. I like the sound and the look of them, and the pauses and paces commas give to sentences.

The sun just went down and I did all right with it today. I'm not lonely. I'm on the couch. A glass of chianti that I'm drinking too cold because I keep it in the fridge now, which is such a weird adult thing to do because it means I won't get through the bottle fast enough on my own. It can be entertaining, like looking at old photos, I compare it to a decade ago when no substance was saved for the next day ever. Whatever there was we consumed. My fluffy white cat is nearby sitting with me in companionable silence. It's quiet, no one yet home, my honey on his way.

Tracy, this one's for you.

A short excerpt from “The Book,” the connection to our cool kid talk about Next Generation comes at the end. It's not totally explicit, but did you ever see the episode that tells the story of the first human to discover speed of light traveling? That's the ideological inspiration. Hope it's as fun to read as it was to write.

***

Here is this book. An agent has the right to not represent me, a publisher has the right to never publish it, you have the right to never read it. You have the right to read it and hate it. You have the right to start it and never finish it. And yes, I’d like to pretend that when I write I don’t think about these things, but I do. When I run my lap around the park, I answer imaginary questions from Leonard Lopate and I am hilarious. I want to be famous. I want to be the best. I am about to be 31, but I want to be published by the time I’m thirty. I want to win a Booker prize even though I’m not British. I want to win the Nobel prize for literature. I already know generally what I’ll wear. Something black, because I sweat when I’m nervous, but silky and with a daring cut. Perhaps a low back to show off some tattoo. I think my hair will be long again and I’ll wear it in a tight braid, or perhaps loose, and I think red lipstick. I want to write a screenplay of this book and I want Jonathan Demme to love it and make the movie and I want to go to Sundance and Cannes and be the talk of the festival. I want to be the non-celebrity who’s so gorgeous and dresses so well they still put pictures of me in US Weekly, and the fashion blogs put up photos of me, saying “Writer surprises with edgy glamour.” I want to win an Oscar and I want to wear either vintage Chanel or Valentino couture; perhaps something new by Lanvin or the house of Alexander McQueen. And during my acceptance speech I want to make a radical political statement that brings people’s attention to our destructive lives of consumption and waste and I want that one to two minute statement to be the catalyst that starts a chain reaction that makes everything better.

#ilovecaptainpicard #thefutureisgoingtobegreat

New Year's Eve

I'm in another state, with a friend's family, and in this one day there was the moment of anxiety when I felt like an alien, there was the moment when I worried that no one else was hvaing a good time, there was the moment I felt fat, there was the moment I felt gorgeous, there was the moment my honey felt sad and angry, there was the moment I got mad at him for feeling sad and angry, there was the moment I saw a row of geese flying in front of a low ridge of a mountain covered with white snow and lined with bare, brown trees like a painting of a New England winter, there was the moment I realized I couldn't call my grandmother to wish her a Happy New Year's as I have every year for a long long time, there was the moment I drank a second half margarita and felt all open and connected, there was the moment my honey played his music for strangers which he usually does not like to do at all, there was the moment I felt that pride in him better then any substance ever, there was a moment he smooched me and then made stand up to give him a proper hug, and there's the moment he said he was looking forward to seeing the brand new red panties I bought especially for New Year's.

It is New Year's 2012 and some have said the end of something is upon us and the more optimistic of us say that what the Maya meant is only that we will experience a great change and isn't a great change perhaps just what we need.

I Think I'm Getting Nicer

I saw Les Mis two nights ago. It was a few things, including long. A man yawned very loudly and dramatically mid-movie and it set my honey off giggling. At first I was only kind of laughing along, but then the song got very life or death for the umpteenth time and the giggling nearly crescendoed out of control. Very early '90's Bar Mitzvah style trying to hold it together through the religious parts. (Wow, the early '90's Bar and Bat Mitzvah thing was tough. I was brand new to private school and suddenly there are these parties that everyone seems to know all about, and each one requires a new dress from the Juniors Department at Macy's, and I'm supposed to bring gifts, and these gifts are supposed to be fancy. Everybody gives money but if me and my mom gave what we could afford it would be not much at all. We got pretty good, I think-I hope-at giving gifts that seemed pricier then they were. A pen once, I think. Anyway, at one in particular the cantor reminded me of Elvis with his lip curl and I almost lost it. Of course, I was also showing off that I almost lost it laughing. The intense and unbearable pressure of trying to be cool! Thank the lord there was not social media then. I know I would have spent hours, literally hours, trying to word facebook posts.)

At the Met with my mom...

"Unbeknown to many, painting had rarely come easily to Matisse. Throughout his career, he questioned, repainted, and reevaluated his work. He used his completed canvases as tools, repeating compositions in order to compare effects, gauge his progress, and, as he put it, 'push further and deeper into true painting.'...For Matisse, the process of creation was not simply a means to an end but a dimension of his art that was as important as the finished canvas."

Good reminder. See also the tapestry images below.

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