|Posted by Janie Jane Jane on August 15, 2014 at 12:25 AM|
Things add up and before you know it you're (I'm) fretting. I have big fears. I forget that I can prepare.
For instance, I haven't been on a city bus in years. I wish I were lighter on my feet. I brag about these
things and how fiercely I will face them. Get them to face ME!
I had 3 months of the NY Times Book Review Section saved up--about 8 weeks' worth. I liked them the
older they were, because I got to avoid the fanfare for other books (i.e., the ones that aren't mine).
I am too willing (I brag) to see your inevitable success and my abismal assured failure.
Maybe I thought I could hide behind failure; who pays THEM any attention? Your friends,
for example. "I'm a Soldier of Love," by Sade. Get out my bayonett, my army fatigues (and why
are they exhausted?).
I wanted to crack open the methods of a poet friend. I think I've found them...She likes
questions for which her poem is the answer. Q and A, as Barbara Walters calls it.
I wish I had coffee and noodle soup. Going to make some coffee an eat Chinese broccoli.
I went to Manhattan's Chinatown to Meh Wah, a dumpling joint, and brought some back.
Everything was delicious.
On spotify I'm listening to husky Sade in a live concert with large crowds. They sound like
marbles shaking around in a glass vase. A sea of people, another wave of excited shouting, from
the front to the back, with the farthrest away walking with babies, trying to rock them to sleep. Where is
the father? Changing a baby's diaper. You can hear the baby's goo goo's more loud than
Sade, who is fabulous in person, on a stage.
Here comes another shower of calls and cheers. Now mostly drums, bass guitar. Then air and
And now a sweet Gala apple whose juice is so sweet it leaves my hand sticky.
I guess we'll get the answer for our beloved Robin Williams' demise. In rehab in July.
Two weeks later: depression = death. Know this: depression is so dark that it actually looks
like light. It gives a good reason for goodbye. Then to Wikipedia on how to tie a noose.
To save his family from his heartbreak, and millions of fans from nights of laughter on a CD
or, if you're lucky, a live performance. His wife (lively and loving it appears from photographs.)
Three smart good-looking kids. My memories of his novels with a delicious mix of wit and
Irony won. Hands down.
It's almost a month since I sprained my wrist, bracing myself in a fall, on a warm June
day while poking thru somebody's household leavings with a couple of other dumster-
divers. Tripped on the curb in the excitement of seeing my favorite kind of hangers.
Hangers. Then X-rays and an Ace bandage. Have relearned how to use my fingers
as pinchers on the wounded left hand--my preferred--and my right trying to learn fast.
During this month I learned to brace myself with my arm, lift up via the elbow, and
reassign projects to my right hand. She's lapping it up--now, finally, the chosen one.
A friend in the hospital after his own attempt. I am so frightened for him! I don't
like having death so near that it whispered in his ear how this time he'd do it right. Not
like the amateur attempts of other times.
What am I listening to on Spotify? Still Sade. My MacBook suddenly allows me
to see video on my MacBook--white and almost fat--not like the new Mac Air, thin as
a couple of CDs. X has one, and I used it once. It has folders that look like real folders
with different colored tabs. Easy to see while on Word writing yet more poems.
Note: a suggestion from Z: about poem writing; he said "Maybe write fewer?"
What an answer! Meaning I can't fathom doing that.
A is back from Korea with her mixed-race boy, and his father, Asian. She
herself is Irish. A handsome family, and a passion to keep it alive in their son. Already
he wakes up from his nap and begs for dried seaweed. i would make myself a
peanut butter sandwich and drink it with a glass of milk. From 3 or 4. B, A's son, is
almost six. Nowadays I see what a magical thing it is to give birth to a child. When someone
dies, does God immediately make a new one?
But to also have a career and a wife or husband (some newly trained to be the cook,
cleaner, and babysiter) -- that tears women apart. Men/the government must pay
more in every sense of the word for the crucial task of raising children.
Gotta go drink some coffee. And it's the 14th of August, a Thursday, at 1:11PM;
muliples of numbers a "thumbs up" (I hardly ever use this expression), lucky sign
for me. A "good job, keep going" sign.
When we lost C. last week (a week without her already?)--a loving, caring supervisor here
at my residence--I wanted to do something, so I wrote a poem about her and
passed out copies, and heard of staff passing out more xeroxes, and I had extras
taped to my door... People who knew I was a writer now saw that I was a writer,
and could give them a scrap of paper to hold onto, turned to me with love and
thanks. It wasn't about being a "good poet," it was about a poet's role in
expression of the feelings of the tribe whose words you spoke. My
Going, and going to take the first step in transportation liberation, which
is to take a bus or Access a Ride...look up meeting addresses. Go to a few
meetings not right in my neighborhood.
When I went to lunch with Z. the other day, I was happy to miss a
meeting of my group. Now there's something to be sad about!
Closing off here, with a wave to Robin: You got it wrong, buddy, but
depression can pick out a pretty outfit and get us to wear it. Joke! It's
not reasons to live, it's reasons to die, but there is no good reason for death,
except to put to rest a patient with life-taking injuries...and so many
reasons for life. Unfortunately depression has good taste and a way
with words, and can convince us that we're in so much pain and
so hopeless, that death has become the solution. I'm speaking from
OK, I'm ortta here!