A few people have requested me to be more forthcoming about where my poems are currently published, providing links and such. Yeah, I can be a bit lackadaisical about that, so here's a blog post just with links to my stuff. Thanks, readers, for giving me the nudge.
My most recent pub, and one of my favorite ones this year, at Escape into Life. Rather than starting at my feature, you should really take some time, begin at the main page. The site is more than it seems on the surface. It has an amazing origin story and it's like a hybrid-art wonderland. Don't forget to check out the complete feature of Viktoria Sorochinski, the woman who took the photos my poems were paired with.
What I like about all of these journals is that they each are so different. I'm honored to be among such great company!
Menacing Hedge
MiPOesias
Rufous City Review
The Shwibly
Thirteen Myna Birds (my work is no longer up and she doesn't do archives, but you should check out the journal anyway)
Wordgathering
More coming in autumn and winter from Blood Lotus, Prick of the Spindle, right hand pointing, and RHINO.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
What I did and didn't do on my summer vacation
Although I was completely bummed about dad changing shore plans last minute so Mike and I couldn't go, I do want to say that I got to do some pretty cool things this week instead of being at the ocean. I actually skipped two readings because I was rather fatigued. Which means I could have done cool things four out of five nights of the week. Actually, there were two on Friday night, but I was dead-exhausted and opted for neither.
What I did do: I went to the Beauty Is A Verb reading on Thursday. I'd been anticipating this reading since last April, when the date had to be moved because of the f*ing bomb threats at Pitt. Usually I find academic venues a bit dry and difficult, lacking in ambiance. This was still the case at the O'Hara Student Center, but the readings were fantastic. And and AND I got to meet three people who I'd been wanting to meet for quite awhile: the smart and sassy Jennifer Bartlett (she's really funny too, and kind) the fierce and feisty Kathi Wolfe (I think I have a crush on one of her new personae, and she said she likes my work and I should email her) and ... Mike Northen, who was rather laid back and professorial and I felt a little awkward because I'm shy and I wonder if he is too. I had that magnets-repelling feeling that I get when two shy people, myself being one of them, try to have a conversation. Nonetheless, he recognized my name from having a poem in Wordgathering this month, and he told me to keep sending... which is really a moment of validation I needed and I sooooo appreciated it.
ASIDE: I had this convo with Mike (husband Mike not editor Mike) about my ridiculous neuroticisms whenever I have poems accepted. For example: an editor quickly accepts four out of five or six poems I sent. My response, although I'm very happy about it, is also tinged with OMG, that editor wasn't very discriminating. They're probably just desperate. They need to fill in some space. It couldn't possibly be because they liked my work that much. If an editor accepts one out of five or six poems that I send, especially if it's an online venue, my reaction, although I'm quite pleased, is tempered with really, only one poem? Wow, I just barely got in. The editor must just barely like me. Why did they choose this poem at all? What about the others? Were they bad? REALLY bad? It was probably a pity-acceptance. I mean, what is wrong with my self-esteem that I can't win either way? But really. Acceptances are winning. Period-end-of-discussion. Even rejections are winning, because it means I actually sent stuff out instead of procrastinating on it. Now if only someone would pick up the manuscript...
Anyway, then on Friday Pitt had a roundtable discussion about dis-studies in the humanities. I guess right now their dis-studies program sort of follows the medical model (grumble, cure, etc.). But they want to parlez. So good on them. I hope this panel got the ball rolling as far as a possible program at Pitt. But it'll be years, I bet. It was a good, stimulating discussion though. I felt like my brain had been to a mini-conference. This is a good feeling. I haven't gotten to go to conferences in quite some time, due to health stuff and work stuff. But... Multiple Perspectives in April and AWP in February. I think I have the months right. Anyone wanna split a room for AWP?
What I did do: I went to the Beauty Is A Verb reading on Thursday. I'd been anticipating this reading since last April, when the date had to be moved because of the f*ing bomb threats at Pitt. Usually I find academic venues a bit dry and difficult, lacking in ambiance. This was still the case at the O'Hara Student Center, but the readings were fantastic. And and AND I got to meet three people who I'd been wanting to meet for quite awhile: the smart and sassy Jennifer Bartlett (she's really funny too, and kind) the fierce and feisty Kathi Wolfe (I think I have a crush on one of her new personae, and she said she likes my work and I should email her) and ... Mike Northen, who was rather laid back and professorial and I felt a little awkward because I'm shy and I wonder if he is too. I had that magnets-repelling feeling that I get when two shy people, myself being one of them, try to have a conversation. Nonetheless, he recognized my name from having a poem in Wordgathering this month, and he told me to keep sending... which is really a moment of validation I needed and I sooooo appreciated it.
ASIDE: I had this convo with Mike (husband Mike not editor Mike) about my ridiculous neuroticisms whenever I have poems accepted. For example: an editor quickly accepts four out of five or six poems I sent. My response, although I'm very happy about it, is also tinged with OMG, that editor wasn't very discriminating. They're probably just desperate. They need to fill in some space. It couldn't possibly be because they liked my work that much. If an editor accepts one out of five or six poems that I send, especially if it's an online venue, my reaction, although I'm quite pleased, is tempered with really, only one poem? Wow, I just barely got in. The editor must just barely like me. Why did they choose this poem at all? What about the others? Were they bad? REALLY bad? It was probably a pity-acceptance. I mean, what is wrong with my self-esteem that I can't win either way? But really. Acceptances are winning. Period-end-of-discussion. Even rejections are winning, because it means I actually sent stuff out instead of procrastinating on it. Now if only someone would pick up the manuscript...
Anyway, then on Friday Pitt had a roundtable discussion about dis-studies in the humanities. I guess right now their dis-studies program sort of follows the medical model (grumble, cure, etc.). But they want to parlez. So good on them. I hope this panel got the ball rolling as far as a possible program at Pitt. But it'll be years, I bet. It was a good, stimulating discussion though. I felt like my brain had been to a mini-conference. This is a good feeling. I haven't gotten to go to conferences in quite some time, due to health stuff and work stuff. But... Multiple Perspectives in April and AWP in February. I think I have the months right. Anyone wanna split a room for AWP?
Saturday, September 15, 2012
True things and nonsense.
A thought that I think my mom thinks, even though I have empirical evidence that suggests otherwise: because she doesn't want to live with any further disabilities, it somehow negates my life. Like she thinks a life with a disability isn't worth living.
Last year or maybe it was two years ago (they blend together) when the docs had to amputate part of her foot, she told me that if she had any further infection in her foot, infection which would impel them to take off the whole foot, that she didn't want to live without a foot. That she would rather be let go septic and die. Fast forward to this situation, and replace foot with (possibly temporary) feeding tube.
Putting aside the irrational thought for the moment, her statements also remind me of an opinion I encountered when I was trying to lead my students in a rhetorical analysis of one argument among the many opinions in the ethics of what people call "the right to die."
ASIDE: Again, please, I don't want to debate ethics on the blog. This is me, emotionally processing. I put it into the world instead of keeping it private in case even one other person that reads this may be helped by it. Also to give my friends insight into what is happening with me right now, since I pretty much am not talking about it in their company.
Anyway, the article was called "Rising to the Occasion of Our Death." Here's the paragraph I'm interested in right now:
[at this moment both Luna and Ruskin have come in whining. One is acting like a kitten on speed and one is acting like a grumpy old man. And now small children are babbling outside my window. I can feel my early morning, tenuous concentration start to erode a little.]
Advocates of active euthanasia appeal to the principle of patient autonomy-- as the use of the phrase "voluntary euthanasia" indicates. But emphasis on the patient's right to determine his or her destiny often harbors an extremely naive view of the uncoerced nature of the decision. Patients who plead to be put to death hardly make unforced decisions if the terms and conditions under which they receive care already nudge them in the direction of the exit. If the elderly have stumbled around in their apartments, alone and frightened for years, or if they have spent years warehoused in geriatrics barracks, then the decision to be killed for mercy hardly reflects an uncoereced decision. The alternative may be so wretched as to push patients toward this escape. It is a huge irony and, in some cases, hypocrisy to talk suddenly about a compassionate killing when the aging and dying may have been starved for compassion for many years. To put to bluntly, a country has not earned the moral right to kill for mercy unless it has already sustained and supported life mercifully. Otherwise we kill for compassion only to reduce the demands on our compassion. This statement does not charge a given doctor or family member with impure motives. I am concerned here not with the individual case but with the cumulative impact of a social policy.
My mom has stumbled around in her life alone and frightened for years. She has stubbornly refused to be pulled from her own morass. Many have tried. She has, over half my life, whittled away her choices until she got to where she's at now.
However, I still can't help but think, for example, that she would not really believe she'd lose her independence, say, with an amputated foot, if she knew she could afford a vehicle with the appropriate modifications to still let her drive. Or if she could move to a city and a climate that would allow her the ability to get around easily using a wheelchair.
But part of me knows this is crap. She equates having to use a wheelchair, even, with like... the worst thing that could happen ever. I really do think she would rather die than use one. I don't know if this is attitudinal, or if she is making this assumption based on some broken cost-benefit analysis. Is the analysis still considered broken if she's poor and living in rural GA?
She refuses counseling.
She refuses counseling.
She refuses counseling.
She would rather die than use a wheelchair.
She mainstreamed me. She told me that I could be like anyone else. She fostered an independence in me that she didn't have by making me do things that I was terrified of doing and sort of like... somehow implied that I had no choice.
I never felt like it was okay to refuse. To say X is too much. I rode horses, did dressage and stadium jumping. She didn't get why I didn't want to compete but eventually let me have that. A lot of time in the arena alone, hating myself. But being thrilled I made it through another lesson. My body was all muscle, so small atop the horses who got bigger and bigger each year. Until I was riding a 16-hand gelding and felt like an ant on the roof of a Porsche just as it enters a tunnel.
I got C's in math because I was bad at math, not that I couldn't make my eyes go back and forth between board and notebook and board to copy the long algebraic proofs and still concentrate on the logic behind them as it was being explained to the class.
She yelled. She screamed. She called me horrible names. One of which was lazy. She asked me how I would ever get into MIT with those grades. I ended up not applying. Not that I'm saying I was a thwarted computer scientist. It's not where my heart truly lay. But.
But it was still a gift.
I realized I could fight through things though they terrified me and that's how I lived my life for a long time. Gritting my teeth against the edge of terror. Probably when I started working with A was when I began to loosen my grip a little.
If this entry doesn't make sense, it's because nothing, nothing made sense or does.
Last year or maybe it was two years ago (they blend together) when the docs had to amputate part of her foot, she told me that if she had any further infection in her foot, infection which would impel them to take off the whole foot, that she didn't want to live without a foot. That she would rather be let go septic and die. Fast forward to this situation, and replace foot with (possibly temporary) feeding tube.
Putting aside the irrational thought for the moment, her statements also remind me of an opinion I encountered when I was trying to lead my students in a rhetorical analysis of one argument among the many opinions in the ethics of what people call "the right to die."
ASIDE: Again, please, I don't want to debate ethics on the blog. This is me, emotionally processing. I put it into the world instead of keeping it private in case even one other person that reads this may be helped by it. Also to give my friends insight into what is happening with me right now, since I pretty much am not talking about it in their company.
Anyway, the article was called "Rising to the Occasion of Our Death." Here's the paragraph I'm interested in right now:
[at this moment both Luna and Ruskin have come in whining. One is acting like a kitten on speed and one is acting like a grumpy old man. And now small children are babbling outside my window. I can feel my early morning, tenuous concentration start to erode a little.]
Advocates of active euthanasia appeal to the principle of patient autonomy-- as the use of the phrase "voluntary euthanasia" indicates. But emphasis on the patient's right to determine his or her destiny often harbors an extremely naive view of the uncoerced nature of the decision. Patients who plead to be put to death hardly make unforced decisions if the terms and conditions under which they receive care already nudge them in the direction of the exit. If the elderly have stumbled around in their apartments, alone and frightened for years, or if they have spent years warehoused in geriatrics barracks, then the decision to be killed for mercy hardly reflects an uncoereced decision. The alternative may be so wretched as to push patients toward this escape. It is a huge irony and, in some cases, hypocrisy to talk suddenly about a compassionate killing when the aging and dying may have been starved for compassion for many years. To put to bluntly, a country has not earned the moral right to kill for mercy unless it has already sustained and supported life mercifully. Otherwise we kill for compassion only to reduce the demands on our compassion. This statement does not charge a given doctor or family member with impure motives. I am concerned here not with the individual case but with the cumulative impact of a social policy.
My mom has stumbled around in her life alone and frightened for years. She has stubbornly refused to be pulled from her own morass. Many have tried. She has, over half my life, whittled away her choices until she got to where she's at now.
However, I still can't help but think, for example, that she would not really believe she'd lose her independence, say, with an amputated foot, if she knew she could afford a vehicle with the appropriate modifications to still let her drive. Or if she could move to a city and a climate that would allow her the ability to get around easily using a wheelchair.
But part of me knows this is crap. She equates having to use a wheelchair, even, with like... the worst thing that could happen ever. I really do think she would rather die than use one. I don't know if this is attitudinal, or if she is making this assumption based on some broken cost-benefit analysis. Is the analysis still considered broken if she's poor and living in rural GA?
She refuses counseling.
She refuses counseling.
She refuses counseling.
She would rather die than use a wheelchair.
She mainstreamed me. She told me that I could be like anyone else. She fostered an independence in me that she didn't have by making me do things that I was terrified of doing and sort of like... somehow implied that I had no choice.
I never felt like it was okay to refuse. To say X is too much. I rode horses, did dressage and stadium jumping. She didn't get why I didn't want to compete but eventually let me have that. A lot of time in the arena alone, hating myself. But being thrilled I made it through another lesson. My body was all muscle, so small atop the horses who got bigger and bigger each year. Until I was riding a 16-hand gelding and felt like an ant on the roof of a Porsche just as it enters a tunnel.
I got C's in math because I was bad at math, not that I couldn't make my eyes go back and forth between board and notebook and board to copy the long algebraic proofs and still concentrate on the logic behind them as it was being explained to the class.
She yelled. She screamed. She called me horrible names. One of which was lazy. She asked me how I would ever get into MIT with those grades. I ended up not applying. Not that I'm saying I was a thwarted computer scientist. It's not where my heart truly lay. But.
But it was still a gift.
I realized I could fight through things though they terrified me and that's how I lived my life for a long time. Gritting my teeth against the edge of terror. Probably when I started working with A was when I began to loosen my grip a little.
If this entry doesn't make sense, it's because nothing, nothing made sense or does.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Another clarification
Ah yes, ladies and gentlemen, you've been waiting for it. At last... drunk blogging. Those of you who know me well may wonder how it was I come to have never drunkenly blogged before. Ahem. Anyway here's how it happened: 1) I got some good poetry related news 2) I'm a total lightweight. 3) No, no one has accepted the MS yet; it wasn't that. 4) But I will share it tomorrow.
I could never do this for someone. Starve them. Even if they begged. Not starving. Not withholding life / water / food. It's too cruel. I couldn't do what my aunt is doing right now. But the situation is different, maybe. To not-starve my mother would take colossal positive action, defiance of her immense gravity, her intense sadness that no one acknowledges but surrounds her like an aura.
Monday Morning Update
I haven't blogged in awhile and I suppose I should, just to keep up the habit. I don't want to fall out of it. For me right now, any positive action, an action that defies gravity, is also pushing against this great sadness. How long does she have left? Did I tell you? I searched the internet for data on how long it takes a person to starve to death. The answer, it seemed, is around 60 days if you have adequate hydration.
[[[Because this blog is open to the internet, I must now restate:
PLEASE NOTE THAT I WILL DELETE ANY COMMENTS RE: THE BROADER SOCIETAL PROS - CONS ABOUT "ASSISTED SUICIDE" IF THEY APPEAR ON MY BLOG OR FACEBOOK. THIS IS MY PERSONAL LIFE RIGHT NOW, A SITUATION THAT IS TROUBLING AND BEYOND MY CONTROL, AND I'M NOT LOOKING TO START A DEBATE. THANK YOU.]]]
[UPDATE: My strategy to call her before my therapy appt has been foiled. I called and she was still in bed -- this is a change in routine from when I was visiting her. At that point she was getting up around 8:30-9am. I asked if I should call her later... hoping she'd say 11 or so... and she suggested this afternoon. Frak. But her voice sounded.... like it always does. Still.]
I'm trying to concentrate on my own positive action in my own life. A new acquaintance has solicited some poems from me for an amazing site of hybrid art and writing. What a boon. It raises me up, helps me feel connected.
* * *
Last Thursday was the first MW workshop of the semester. I had to leave briefly to cry. One of my meds makes me foggy, so that when I try to, for example, carry on a scholarly conversation, and I'm pressed to clarify my ideas, I just get verbally derailed. Like the thought I was *just having* evaporates, dissolves back into my brain.
* * *
* * *
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
No good words
Sometimes a stack of disappointments just makes me fall in on myself in concentric circles of sad, like a rock tossed and then falling to the bottom of a lake.
I just don't know what else to say.
I can't take one more disappointment right now.
I was working so hard to collect myself to get to the shore, to make sure I was stable and could have a conversation with someone without crying or having a panic attack. To make sure I wasn't going to get claustrophobic while riding the bus. Yesterday I had lunch with Barb who is so great. And we went back to look at her sweet little apartment. It was the first time in days that I hadn't felt the sadness just constantly eating at me. I could just ignore it for a time. And so, after navigating the obstacles of my emotional crap and Mike's work crap, we finally made the decision that we could pry ourselves away and go to the shore....
....and now it looks like my "transportation opportunity" has fallen through. Last week it was teetering on the edge and I had some hope that we could work it out, but I found out this morning that even with Mike & my efforts to meet halfway, the answer is no. We made the decision 12 hours too late.
Right now, at this moment, I am incredibly bitter that I can't drive. I'm very bitter at my family who didn't even double check with me before they changed the plan.
I just can't even.... I want to go back to bed forever. I have to see A at 11:45, but I don't want to go outside because I can't take another thing going wrong right now.
Fuck this. Fuck everything.
I just don't know what else to say.
I can't take one more disappointment right now.
I was working so hard to collect myself to get to the shore, to make sure I was stable and could have a conversation with someone without crying or having a panic attack. To make sure I wasn't going to get claustrophobic while riding the bus. Yesterday I had lunch with Barb who is so great. And we went back to look at her sweet little apartment. It was the first time in days that I hadn't felt the sadness just constantly eating at me. I could just ignore it for a time. And so, after navigating the obstacles of my emotional crap and Mike's work crap, we finally made the decision that we could pry ourselves away and go to the shore....
....and now it looks like my "transportation opportunity" has fallen through. Last week it was teetering on the edge and I had some hope that we could work it out, but I found out this morning that even with Mike & my efforts to meet halfway, the answer is no. We made the decision 12 hours too late.
Right now, at this moment, I am incredibly bitter that I can't drive. I'm very bitter at my family who didn't even double check with me before they changed the plan.
I just can't even.... I want to go back to bed forever. I have to see A at 11:45, but I don't want to go outside because I can't take another thing going wrong right now.
Fuck this. Fuck everything.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Bath
So I just took my first oatmeal bath in an attempt to soothe my spots. The spots creep ever-upward. They have now gained the territory of the torso, reaching the stomach, breast, upper back. It's like a gradient. They are most prevalent at the ankles and calves and then thin out-and-up.
MY OATMEAL BATH EXPERIENCE
First of all, consider the name: colloidal oatmeal. I thought: spheroid, toroid, ... it's shaped like a colon? I knew that wasn't right but the word colloidal was intriguing. Googling the etymology gives you
1847, from Fr. colloide (1845), from Gk. kolla "glue" + -oeides "form"
It's a type of suspended solution.
Secondly, the packet. Made by Aveeno Active Naturals. It looked like the type of oatmeal packet where you'd microwave it for breakfast. Which led to my third fleeting thought can I eat this? No. For external use only. In bold type. Directions: Turn warm water faucet on to full force. Slowly sprinkle packet of colloidal oatmeal directly under the faucet into the tub or container. Stir any colloidal oatmeal settled on the bottom. The writers of the package copy liked the word colloidal too.
I turned on the faucet, sprinkled slowly at first and then got impatient and sort of dumped it in. It smelled like (surprise!) oatmeal. The clumps --of course there were clumps b/c I was impatient --looked like cat vomit. I tried not to think about that as I reached down and unclumped them with my fingers. They felt like warm velvety goop and dissolved as soon as I touched them.
As I slid into the tub I wondered about my new ink and soaking it. For two weeks, no sun, no soaking, no pools. Soaking opens the pores and compromises the ink or something. Then I remembered that I marked 8/31 in my planner as TATTOO HEALED TODAY.
August 31 was also my mother's birthday.
Oh dear God I just said was. Fuckshitfuck. Not was was. Just was, as in, it happened yesterday. Not that it never will happen again. Not what I meant. She's 66 now.
I did not call her.
At the time of our recent goodbye I told her I'll call you in a few days. If you're up for talking we'll talk. She smiled and said okay sweetie. There were tears in her voice but her voice is one that sounds like there's always tears in it.
I did not want to call her until after the Prosody taping was over. Now it's over. I should probably call her tonight.
I told my brain not to think about that.
So into the tub. I stretch into a forward-fold and scrutinize my legs. Today a new friend made a reference to something that happened in 2002 but you were probably still in your crib. I replied fake-indignantly, pshosh! I'll have you know they send babies to grad school now. I started grad school in '02. She : are you thirty-five? Me : thirty-seven. She : you look twenty ____. Some number I didn't hear. Well, from the hips up I might look twenty-mumbles, but from the hips down I look my age and more. Mottled pink-gray-pink. Lots of varicosities and knots, bruises, blue stripes and swaths. And of course, the recently arrived constellations of spots. The mess on the back of my left ankle that I've named Clusterfuck. The one in the bend of my left knee that I named Sammy.
Then: damn, this tub is shallow. Hotel tub. Who knew it was more shallow than the one at my house? I pretzeled my legs underneath me and submerged my head to the point where the water was over my ears. My thighs, knees, and the top surface of my torso still stuck out. Chicken, get in the pot. I couldn't get myself into the pot.
I looked up. Towel rack. White towels. The deliciously scratchy kind. My hair floated around me. I thought what if the spots come up on my scalp. I briefly fantasized about shaving my head. I remember what that felt like. The divine feeling of quarter-inch-long head stubble. I thought about my natural hair color, which is sort of an ashy brown. Which made me think about how my mom, for the first time since I've known her, has her natural hair, with no processing of any kind. It's actually really beautiful. She had it straightened when I was there, or perhaps merely straight. Cut into a tidy little bob. The color a deep nut-brown with streaks of gray in her long bangs and at her temples. Little threads at her part. I think it was the most beautiful I've ever seen her hair.
I wondered if it would fall out, now that she's starving.
I told my brain not to think about that.
I looked up at the towel rack again. I wished I was at home with music in my tub where the water will cover more of me. I absently sloshed water over my exposed torso. With my ears underwater I could hear a deep hhrrrummm hhhrrruuumm. This room abuts a service elevator. Distant noise of people talking, moving crap around. I begin to sing very softly I hear the roar of a big machine / hot metal and methedrine / I hear your dive bombers / empire down. Well, at least all those words are in the song anyway. More of me sloshing. I wonder if the guys talking can hear me sloshing like I can hear them talking. I wonder if they wonder if I wonder if the-----
The water got cool too fast. I sat up, drained the tub. Some colloidal cat vomit had streaked and plocked onto the bottom of the tub. I was like eeeewwww and wiped that up. I didn't want the housekeeper coming tomorrow and thinking sheesh what drunks or something. Only later did I realize there would be one if not two showers taken by the time the tub was cleaned.
[I think too much about what other people think about me.]
I compromised a white towel with some red hair dye. Oops.
I leave stains everywhere I go I told my brain not to think that.
BOTTOM LINE:
Bathing is relaxing.
Sloshing is relaxing.
My lower back and hip muscles feel better.
My skin feels extra soft.
But also prickly and itchy.
Deeper tub next time.
MY OATMEAL BATH EXPERIENCE
First of all, consider the name: colloidal oatmeal. I thought: spheroid, toroid, ... it's shaped like a colon? I knew that wasn't right but the word colloidal was intriguing. Googling the etymology gives you
1847, from Fr. colloide (1845), from Gk. kolla "glue" + -oeides "form"
It's a type of suspended solution.
Secondly, the packet. Made by Aveeno Active Naturals. It looked like the type of oatmeal packet where you'd microwave it for breakfast. Which led to my third fleeting thought can I eat this? No. For external use only. In bold type. Directions: Turn warm water faucet on to full force. Slowly sprinkle packet of colloidal oatmeal directly under the faucet into the tub or container. Stir any colloidal oatmeal settled on the bottom. The writers of the package copy liked the word colloidal too.
I turned on the faucet, sprinkled slowly at first and then got impatient and sort of dumped it in. It smelled like (surprise!) oatmeal. The clumps --of course there were clumps b/c I was impatient --looked like cat vomit. I tried not to think about that as I reached down and unclumped them with my fingers. They felt like warm velvety goop and dissolved as soon as I touched them.
As I slid into the tub I wondered about my new ink and soaking it. For two weeks, no sun, no soaking, no pools. Soaking opens the pores and compromises the ink or something. Then I remembered that I marked 8/31 in my planner as TATTOO HEALED TODAY.
August 31 was also my mother's birthday.
Oh dear God I just said was. Fuckshitfuck. Not was was. Just was, as in, it happened yesterday. Not that it never will happen again. Not what I meant. She's 66 now.
I did not call her.
At the time of our recent goodbye I told her I'll call you in a few days. If you're up for talking we'll talk. She smiled and said okay sweetie. There were tears in her voice but her voice is one that sounds like there's always tears in it.
I did not want to call her until after the Prosody taping was over. Now it's over. I should probably call her tonight.
I told my brain not to think about that.
So into the tub. I stretch into a forward-fold and scrutinize my legs. Today a new friend made a reference to something that happened in 2002 but you were probably still in your crib. I replied fake-indignantly, pshosh! I'll have you know they send babies to grad school now. I started grad school in '02. She : are you thirty-five? Me : thirty-seven. She : you look twenty ____. Some number I didn't hear. Well, from the hips up I might look twenty-mumbles, but from the hips down I look my age and more. Mottled pink-gray-pink. Lots of varicosities and knots, bruises, blue stripes and swaths. And of course, the recently arrived constellations of spots. The mess on the back of my left ankle that I've named Clusterfuck. The one in the bend of my left knee that I named Sammy.
Then: damn, this tub is shallow. Hotel tub. Who knew it was more shallow than the one at my house? I pretzeled my legs underneath me and submerged my head to the point where the water was over my ears. My thighs, knees, and the top surface of my torso still stuck out. Chicken, get in the pot. I couldn't get myself into the pot.
I looked up. Towel rack. White towels. The deliciously scratchy kind. My hair floated around me. I thought what if the spots come up on my scalp. I briefly fantasized about shaving my head. I remember what that felt like. The divine feeling of quarter-inch-long head stubble. I thought about my natural hair color, which is sort of an ashy brown. Which made me think about how my mom, for the first time since I've known her, has her natural hair, with no processing of any kind. It's actually really beautiful. She had it straightened when I was there, or perhaps merely straight. Cut into a tidy little bob. The color a deep nut-brown with streaks of gray in her long bangs and at her temples. Little threads at her part. I think it was the most beautiful I've ever seen her hair.
I wondered if it would fall out, now that she's starving.
I told my brain not to think about that.
I looked up at the towel rack again. I wished I was at home with music in my tub where the water will cover more of me. I absently sloshed water over my exposed torso. With my ears underwater I could hear a deep hhrrrummm hhhrrruuumm. This room abuts a service elevator. Distant noise of people talking, moving crap around. I begin to sing very softly I hear the roar of a big machine / hot metal and methedrine / I hear your dive bombers / empire down. Well, at least all those words are in the song anyway. More of me sloshing. I wonder if the guys talking can hear me sloshing like I can hear them talking. I wonder if they wonder if I wonder if the-----
The water got cool too fast. I sat up, drained the tub. Some colloidal cat vomit had streaked and plocked onto the bottom of the tub. I was like eeeewwww and wiped that up. I didn't want the housekeeper coming tomorrow and thinking sheesh what drunks or something. Only later did I realize there would be one if not two showers taken by the time the tub was cleaned.
[I think too much about what other people think about me.]
I compromised a white towel with some red hair dye. Oops.
I leave stains everywhere I go I told my brain not to think that.
BOTTOM LINE:
Bathing is relaxing.
Sloshing is relaxing.
My lower back and hip muscles feel better.
My skin feels extra soft.
But also prickly and itchy.
Deeper tub next time.
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