Thursday, September 23, 2004

Autumn Lament

I want to crawl back into my daughter’s bed
Past stars, dark, and ephemeral light,
Back into the moments with the Stinky Cheese Man
And laugh at the words, the pictures.

There with her witch-broom hair tickling my face on the pillow
The warmth of her against me, her little stuffed dog. I
want to be cramped into the space of her kicking
Feel her foot stretched into my ribs, where we are safe.
My bean pole, my mermaid’s purse-
Shark of my waters, laughing into sleep.

Long hours away correcting the
words of others who do not speak the language of bears.
To crawl back through pastel, and swaddling,
into the rhythm of beat and breath-
9/23

Friday, September 17, 2004

Bank Friday 9/17

(for Tom)

I went to the ATM machine to deposit my check, stuck the card in and punched numbers, licked the envelope, then I almost collapsed. Everything swirled. I held on to consciousness and the wall long enough to hit cancel and pocket my card. I could think clearly enough to recall that the last thing I did was lick that envelope and I had enough synapse left to wonder if I was poisoned. I could see the tight stack of deposit envelopes crammed into their holder, and I could see the folly of putting my mouth on something so public.

Imagine eternity swirling in the moments of clenching the wall, and hallucinating about a covert operation of thugs lacing envelopes with drugs in order to make small towns freak out. It could be that an epidemic will occur or that part of the population will temporarily go nuts. Anyway, I stood there with my knees half collapsed. Slowly, I stood straight and did my best to regain composure. There was a half-ton truck to the right on the corner with the kind of guy in it that usually drives with his dog in the back. I turned, took a step toward the crosswalk and reevaluated my idea to walk across the steamy pavement. The truck guy was watching me, which I understood as a concerned look. I asked the guy to help me walk across the street.

He refused. First he offended me, "Maybe your early years of partying are catching up to you." “Nope, not that kind of girl...” I said under my breath. Then he asked, “Has this happened before?” “No.” I said as indignantly as possible. He added, “Did you have a rough day at work?” “No just the usual Friday at high school.”I said stiffly. I couldn’t move because of the swirling and the heavy change of gravity. But I could remember that I had a school staff shirt on and that I didn’t look half bad. He started his line of questioning again, "If I help you across the street where are you going?" "To my car” I replied with the energy of Eeyore. "If you can't make it across the street lady, do you think you should drive?" I didn't say "DUH" because I couldn't take a deep enough breath to aspirate a word. He aimed me to the pole on the corner and told me to rest, and he left. Things eventually got into focus, but I was there for a long while.

Truth be told, there was that one experimental time when I wanted to try some acid. I remember the conversation. “You could see God on this stuff, man, there are faces in the wallpaper that you won’t forget.” That didn’t persuade me, but my curiosity got the better of me. Another friend, Terrie, warned me about it saying, “If you try that, you might get a flashback later and you won’t know when that’ll happen. It could be at the worst possible time.” She was trying to appeal to my need for sustained control, but I was thinking something more aligned with being thrifty, “If I take this now, it’s like an investment in the future! I’ll have another trip without spending any money.” There I was on the concrete sidewalk at the corner of Main and First Street waiting for the scene to pass at the bank of strange investments. I don’t know if I have a bad heart, a bad past or an inner ear infection, but for me, being helpless, was the worst fate.
to be continued.

Saturday, September 11, 2004

excerpt from my book

Depending how you were raised and how much money your family had, the proper pronunciation of the city’s name is either "Greensburr," with a clipped, harsh end, or "Greensburrah," with a genteel fade. The genderless Greensboro that I enunciated is a compromise between the two cities, between Lee Street and Fisher Park, bars on windows and boats in the driveway. It is the immigrant’s Greensboro, claimed as an astronaut puts a flag on the moon. The book I was writing followed the geographical patterns of its patron city, starting with a few well-planned streets and moving thusly outward, criscrossing and looping without regard for parallelism. The medium is the metaphor, the theorists would argue, and a book looks like the city it is trying to replicate. Married couples begin to resemble each other. Imitation is the sincerest sign of flattery. How else to show you the intersection of Spring and Bellemeade, where either a right or left turn brings you to a different one-way street, when even a photograph has difficulty explaining the conceit? That is the sort of thing that you learn from constant driving, from searching for shortcuts. I was so deeply in love with my city that I even had a favorite intersection.

I wrote the book like mountain climbers scale Everest: you go up and back down, zigzagging your way to the top. Going straight up would make you sick, unable to adjust to the thinning air. I think that Greensboro is a hill becoming a mountain just like I am a girl becoming a woman. Sometimes it was difficult to breathe. That night when Seth tried to break down the front door of my apartment, drunk and remorseful, I breathed haltingly in case he could hear me getting up and sneaking into the bathroom to call the police. By the time the officers arrived Seth was gone. At a classic film screening I once ran into his roommate and for a moment relived a lonely siren on a quiet street where no one had ever been robbed. Even if it is impossible to ‘find yourself,’ it is possible to find your way. I erased pages after writing new ones. A ninety page manuscript was briefly one hundred and then eighty-nine. Paragraphs jumped from one section to another. I wrote the book like I lived my life, dancing between cities and love affairs and favorite authors. Some days it had a title, most days it was "my Greensboro thing." I had a goal to get to one hundred and twenty but never seemed to get past eighty-five. What could I say about Greensboro that would fill a book? Everything had to be said twice, restated under the guise of reflection. Really it was filling space. Greensboro, the book, the boys I could not yet call men, the friends, the bars, and all the new homes, all just filling space.

Friday, September 10, 2004

new stuff

I've received several emails about people wanting to put stuff up and not knowing how. I really don't know how to help you. If you are a named user, (not of drugs) you likely have a password. If you go the http://completefiction4us.blogspot.com/ or the www.blogger.com site, you can probably enter your name and password, then you get the dashboard. At the dashboard you can click on edit or new post. I have the blogger site on my favorites and go to completefiction that way. If you need more help than that, let me know. I wish it was easier than that. It could be that going to completefiction directly might allow you to read and not post. Dunno. email me with more questions if you need more help.
PS Greensboro review accepts poems and stories until the 15th of September

jesse