Alphabets

My body is trying to tell me that I need to write again.

A few nights ago, as I was going to sleep, but not quite ready for bed, I dozed off with my face in my pillow. For a few split seconds I saw a carousel. As it turned silently in my mind, I narrated the scene to myself in short lines of poetry. I awoke suddenly and said aloud, "I need to write again."

I was startled by the words. I don't know why I said it, but it left me unsettled.

I have a confession. I'm kind of mad at my poetry. Around my senior year of college we began to develop an adversarial relationship. I think this arose, at least in part, because I didn't know what I was going to do with my life, but I knew what I desperately wanted to do with my life, which was write poetry.

One day I decided that I wasn't going to dedicate the rest of my life to writing. I decided that I was going to do something else and that, to spite my writing, I'd be very happy with my decision and very good at my chosen career (luckily for me, the first part of this is true, and as for the second part, well, I guess my boss would be the judge of that).

I've tried to explain a poet's relationship with words, but I just can't. The only people I've met who sort of understand are musicians. Even people who prefer prose don't seem to feel the same way about writing as poets.

All of this confusion and emotion and anger and pain that comes from this mad passion can leave one feeling quite isolated. I grew tired of the isolation. The only thing that made it bearable for a few years was having a close friend, another poet, nearby to talk about these things that no one else understands. When she moved to California to go to graduate school, my entire poetic support network moved with her. I began to resent my writing.

When I angrily decided that I would not pursue writing as a career, I felt as if I had KO-ed my writing love. I was proud of myself. I felt strong. Poetry could not defeat me if I were simply to quit.

Still I find these moments of pain. I feel an emptiness. I hear phrases, names, fragments of conversation that I want to save and use in my poems. Indignantly, I refuse to claim them.

I feel as though I had a small lover's quarrel with my soul mate and, because we are both stubborn, we both refuse to come back to one another. Each is waiting for the other to yield.

It's a conundrum. Intangibles can't really yield. As a result, I'm always the one to come crawling back. I'm tired of crawling back. I'm ready for the writing to come to me.

But it won't.

A few months after I'd made this quiet decision, my LA poet started to catch on. She started to ask me about my writing. Ask me if I was writing and what I was writing. I kept telling her I didn't have the time. "Make the time," she said, "you need to write." I brushed her off. I grew annoyed with her for reminding me of something I was trying to forget.

She'd try to coax me and encourage me by telling me how I was better than almost everyone in her master's program. I told her she was exaggerating.

Then one day, for some reason or another, I sat down, and almost against my will, almost without my own consent, I wrote two or three poems. They were amazing. They were the flawless sort of works that are so perfect you feel they could almost fly off the page. The kind of poems that have no "process" and so can't be explained. The kind of poems that make poets crazy because they don't know how or why they write them, they just do (every poem I have written that has ever won an award has been this kind of poem).

I showed my LA poet. She said, "Oh my God, you need to write. There are so few good writers, I can't sit by and let one of them not write."

Here was my friend, trying to be the best friend and fellow writer she could be, encouraging me, giving me feedback, being supportive, not nagging - approaching the situation in the best way she could - and I wouldn't listen.

I was (and still am) really mad at my writing.

I'm still mad at my poetry.

I used to be in a place where reading a good poem brought me unbelievable joy, but now I'm in a place where it angers me. I've become something I loathe: a jealous writer.

Jealousy always seems a sign of mediocrity to me, especially among writers. Those who are great should not envy talent, they should admire it. Those who are great need not envy greatness, because they have it themselves. My jealousy showed me just how pitiful I'd become.

So I buried myself in outside things. I became so busy and so "otherwise occupied" that my once feigned excuse of busyness became a truth. There were a few months where I thought I might never write again. I even began reading some good fiction without having pangs of regret.

Then came that dream.

I have been uneasy since that dream, but I've left room for the uneasiness to persist.

Two nights ago I dreamed one of my dead friends was secretly still alive and disguised as another of my friends. The dream was long and involved. I was overjoyed. I felt the invisible scales of life's justice had finally tipped in his favor. I went along with the ruse. The dream ended with my friend fainting unexpectedly. Someone was coming, and I didn't know who. I sensed we were in danger. I picked up his motionless body and began to carry him. I carried him up flight after flights of stairs. I reached the top of the building with his body in my arms. There was no where else to go. I woke up.

I don't know what that dream means, but it is a clear message that I need to write again. There are too many things that, left unsorted, will explode out of my mind in confusing and painful ways, and rather than turning into something creative and beautiful, they will fester and hurt. I can't keeping pretending I don't need this. It's ridiculous.

A famous professor of mine once spoke of the magnitude of the poet's "fucking ego." "We all want to write all good things all the time," she said, "we all have this big fucking ego." She's right. This unspeakable trepidation I feel is fear that I will write something unsatisfying to me.

How shameful of me to have succumbed to my own pride in a way that ultimately ended up destroying the very pride I was trying to protect. What a stupid poetic thing to do. How deluded must I have been to believe that stopping the outlet I use to release all of my ideas and creations, good and bad, would stop the ideas and creations themselves?

Awakening with the feeling of the weight of my friend's body still lingering in my arms was a good reminder that, I guess to put it simply, I am who I am. Frustration, anger, indignation, pride - nothing will change that.


So LA poet, if you read this, "thank you" and I'll see you soon.

Love Forever, Love is Free*

For the past few months, I've come to appreciate the "community" of regulars who grace my presence on my daily trek to work. The most interesting people, by far, are the people who wait for their bus at the stop where I wait to transfer to my second bus.

Only one bus travels the route where I catch my first bus, which means that the only people who are ever at that stop are people coming from my neighborhood and going downtown (or somewhere in between).

At my second bus stop, at least 10 busses (and probably more like 15) stop in front of the building where I catch my second bus. They are busses from all different neighborhoods, and even some coming from outside of the city. It's amazing what you can tell about someone by looking at the bus they get off of, or onto. It's even more amazing what you can't tell.

One of my favorite people (who is really part of a pair) who I get to see is a high school-aged boy who waits in the bus shelter with me everyday for about five minutes (it's just the way our schedules coincide).

When I first noticed him, he got off of a city bus with a group of four or five other high school kids. The group proceeded to walk toward the nearest high school, but he stopped and waited in the bus shelter. I was baffled, but didn't really pay attention to his comings or goings except to notice that he had always disappeared by the time I boarded my second bus.

As this continued, I started to pay more attention. I noticed one day that he had his name embroidered onto a varsity sports sweatshirt (I won't be so inappropriate as to state it, but it made me happy that it was a good Irish name). As I looked at his sweatshirt one day (trying to be inconspicuous), trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was always frowning, I noticed his eyes light up. A high school girl was getting off of a another city bus. Love.

She stopped and smiled coyly as soon as she descended the bus stairs, and then quickly ran over to him, latching onto him around his waist in an embrace. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. After about 10 seconds of coat and bag shuffling, they walked toward the school together.

This happens every day. The boy stands, stone-faced, in his varsity sweatshirt, listening to his headphones. Sometimes he gives me a curious glance when he catches me taking a picture of the city in the morning (a hobby that brings me a lot of joy), but he never makes eye-contact and he never smiles. The girl's bus always comes about 5 minutes after his bus, and she always does something cutesy and lavishes love and affection on him before they depart for school.

I wondered, for a few days, why she was so outwardly affectionate, and why he was so stoney-faced, and why that didn't worry her at all. It seemed so obvious by their interaction that there was a discrepancy in their care for each other.

But a few weeks ago, as I stood trying not look at my bus shelter companion - who was trying not to shiver in the snow and wind in his sweatshirt - I realized that this boy was standing in the snow and wind and cold because of her. He waits for her every day without fail. He never has a coat on**. He has to put up with some strange girl staring at him. It's also probably the case that he could take a later bus and get to school on time, but he doesn't so they can have their little rendez-vous every morning. Now that is love.

She may jump up and down and hug him and squeel and give him kisses everytime she sees him, but I can tell by the look in his face that his day begins and ends with thoughts of her. His whole world revolves around her. Giving kisses is easy, standing outside in the cold isn't.

I know she loves him too, but it's just so obvious that it's not the same way he loves her, and because of that I want to protect him. There are days when I want to turn to him and say "I know. I know what you're feeling. I know what's it's like to love someone so much that it scares you."

But I know I'm past the age where it would mean anything to him. To teenagers, anyone who wears dry-clean-only clothes and gets up to go to work (and not school) every morning just doesn't get it. And in a way, I don't. Remembering what it was like to be a teenager in love*** is not the same thing as actually being there.

More than anything I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him that he is going to have his heart broken, by her and by other girls, but that that's okay. I want to say "I know because I was there! I was that girl who showered kisses and affection on her stoic boyfriend!" And even though that relationship ended, and it hurt, if you mature the right way, and learn from your mistake (and don't get too battered along the way), you'll grow into an adult who can experience love in a way that a teenager never could. I survived that battled, and I'm the better for it.

But I can't tell him that. Even if he would listen, it wouldn't do any good. These, like so many other life lessons, are the things you have to learn on your own.

Looking at them is like looking through a telescope into my past. Every day I am reminded of the things old boyfriends did for me and it hurts because I remember that I didn't always return the kindness or devotion. But then I think of all of the things I do now for love. All of the things I can do now for love.

And I am grateful. I'm grateful that I've become the person I am, and I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to watch them and learn from them in ways they won't be able to, until they've lived and loved like I have (and do).



*From "Feel Good, Inc" by Gorillaz


**At first I romanticized it in my mind, thinking perhaps he came from a poor family who couldn't afford a coat, but it's far more likely that he has a perfectly good coat at home and a mother who shouts "aren't you going to wear your coat?!" every morning, just before he shouts "no!" and slams the door.

*** and I'm sure that statement will cause some chuckles from people who read this, and who see me as currently being young and in love, because I am young and in love, but I'm not a teenager anymore.

Things That Make Me Happy

1) The sound my dog makes when she eats cereal I've dropped on the floor

2) My first sip of green tea when it's a little too hot, but not too hot to drink.

3) Waking up in the middle of the night and being COLD. I'm always hot when I sleep, so being cold when I sleep is the greatest.

4) Cherry vanilla soy cream (especially the chunks of cherry).

5) Riding my bicycle on any summer day, and especially any summer night.

6) Being thirsty and remembering that I carry my Nalgene everywhere with me.

7) Walking through Schenley Park late at night (and especially going to my secret place in the park).

8) Going to the outdoor movies in Schenley during the summer (even crappy movies are great when you're lying on a picnic blanket and eating a Scooter Crunch).

9) When the police chopper flies overhead during the movies and the lights startle everyone and you catch a glimpse of faces that are otherwise invisible in the darkness

10) Being surprised with dinner when I get home frome work

11) Being reminded that my old friends still think about me

12) Great Lake Swimmers

13) Peepers (they're really summer frogs, but I call them peepers).

14) The tradition of making homemade sangria every summer, and then having an excuse to invite my close friends over to share it with me (usually for several weekends in a row).

15) The homamade apple cider tradition that we started this year.

16) Dicsovering that allspice comes from a berry! (courtesy of the cider recipe)

17) Hearing my Grandaddy's voice

18) Remembering the way my grandpa laughed when he watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

19) Getting enough sleep

20) Picnics - even if they're only with canned tuna and pieces of cheese.

21) Swinging on the swingset at Anderson playground

22) Getting at least 8 hours of sleep

23) Running a good 3 miles and having the energy to run more

24) Christmas lights (especially those on the Ronald McDonald houses).

25) Laying on a blanket on the beach and falling asleep in the sun.

26) Forcing my fellow vacationers to turn off the central air in the beach house and taking it back old school by opening up all of the windows and turning on all of the ceiling fans.

27) Salad with homemade ginger dressing

28) Salad with Greek dressing (especially from Ali Baba and Aladdin's)

29) Any fresh salad!

30) To be continued (refer to #19).

Keep the Faith

I'm writing instead of getting to bed at a reasonable hour for work tomorrow. However, much to my adult side's chagrin, I think this is a good thing.

On Friday at work, my boss told me the story of an elusive co-worker (I've yet to meet him, but his was both the first name I heard, and the name I hear most frequently in the office). She told me how he and his brother both immigrated (she thinks from Serbia) to go to school in Pittsburgh. He (the coworker) went to Pitt, and his brother went to CMU to study music. After earning a master's in music, the brother, in a fit of frustration (and I'm sure some despair too) because he couldn't find a job, gave it up. He stopped playing music. He went back to CMU and got a master's in computer science.

My boss told me she imagined his instrument (which remained nameless in the conversation) sitting in a corner gathering dust. She found this especially sad as the brother now has a young child who could be blessed with his father's playing.

I am in total agreement with her about the idea of exposing young children to music. Hearing music as a child is fantastic. Hearing someone play music passionately is fantastic. When I was young, my parents took me to the symphony a few times a year, and while I didn't understand the music, I loved going. I loved seeing the symphony in Chautauqua when I was little, too. (to be honest, I even loved hearing the symphony practice in Chautauqua - but then, Chautauqua is a lot like the Walgreen's commercials: perfect.)

My mom took me to see Ray Charles when I was 5*, and my dad taught me to use the cd player and drag a chair into the living room so I could play my favorite Beatles' bootleg, Backtrack, at around the same time. So anyway, yes, exposing young children to music is important.

However, I disagree with my boss about the finality of all of this. I maintained at the time (and I still do) that this is temporary. He is frustrated. Being an artist is frustrating. Being an unsucessful artist (when you have the potential to be, or already are, great) can be mind-numbing. It's obvious to me that the brother is just numbed right now. But it's not permanent.

Loving art is a lot like loving a person, except without the benefit of talking. It's always a one-sided conversation. Writing sometimes leaves me dying for my writing to respond to me. It never does. After some subconscious cost/benefit analyis, you decide whether the relationship is one worth keeping or whether to scrap it. Here's the thing: you can never really scrap it. You can never really make a clean break from writing or music (or painting, or drawing, or composing, or singing, or dancing).

He will play again. He's in the midst of a lover's quarrel. They will kiss, and make up. He will play again.

And Michelle, even though you haven't written in four years, and you hate what being a journalist did to your feeling about the written word, you can write again too.


*Not that I was a saint at these performances- I once (and I gained notoriety for this) fell asleep in the front rows watching Carmina Burana when I was 7, or 8. I also fell asleep in the front rows watching a huge Motown reunion (and my mom still teases me about it).