What a meeting we had last nite! Tons of people on a freezing cold evening with the stars shining brightly and a delicious crescent moon, the kind that looks like a child's smile, and a few patches of ice as I drove down the backstreets to our church.
People were already inside as I backed into the unused handicap zone. God punished me for parking there by making the healing of my back bad very very slow. Did you know I refuse to take pain medicine for fear of becoming manic again?
When in doubt, blog! Or read the online NY Times. I wanted to share this superb pictorial essay with you, Dear Reader. Esp. with Nancy Wolen who's submitted some awesome paintings to the Compass.
The woman sitting next to me in our Small Group last nite had beautiful curly hair and was happily married. Her travails are second to no one's. That woman has probably had every single bad thing that can happen to a woman happen to her. She is not doing well. I asked her, Have you ever used artwork or writing to help yourself? No, she said. Well, there you go. There is always ONE MORE THING you can try to help yourself. I just mailed her the above link.
"New Directions Speaks" is the title of a new blog one of our family members created IMMEDIATELY after the meeting last nite. Very few people follow up as quickly as Debbie did. I am impressed! NDS will be a confidential site for our members to post How they're doing and to Ask other members questions.
A new member "Connie" age 22 was surprised to hear about "late onset bipolar disorder" such as I had and also Patty in our group had. At 22, newly diagnosed Connie thought she knew just about everything about bipolar disorder. Honey, there is a lot to learn. Connie is on lithium, the only drug that works for her. One of our table-mates began to bad-mouth lithium. This is something you never do so other members needed to get in there to shut her up & assure Connie it was fine to be on lithium.
Connie's doctor, however, didn't tell her about the possibility of renal dysfunction, which is why I went off the naturally occurring salt. I assured Connie that it only occurs after many years of use and is relatively rare. Kay Jamison still takes her lithium.
Connie and others wanted to know why I'm cured. I didn't wanna waste valuable time telling them as there were so many more important concerns in the group so I said wait till the end. Fortunately there was no time to tell my story. I hate talking about myself in front of the group. I LOVE listening to others.
In the large group I announced that our Iris has taken many of our people under her wing and talks for hours to them on the phone. I hope she has headsets like I do so she doesn't get a sore neck. If it's your nature to speak to people, it's incredibly healing.
A flotilla of cars went to the IHOP afterward. I politely declined and blithely drove out the one-way driveway - going the wrong way of course - to drive home on the backroads. Wow, I thought to myself, that was some fantastic meeting. I wasn't expecting it. I thought no one would be there. Murray suggested we do an Authentic Happiness Group a la Martin Seligman to keep people in the group who are doing better.
I'm all for that! I'll try anything to serve our people. After all, you're not gonna have Ruth Deming to kick around like a ragdoll some day. I can't stand people who write LOL to show they're joking. I never ever do that! I just let the reader sink or swim on their own.
First thing I did when I got home was remove my clodhopper shoes or as Scott says, my sexy hiking boots. That man is always up for a good piece of ..... nevermind.... LOL
I was exhausted! Do you get hungry like I do when I'm tired? The body is desperately trying to energize itself. What? I shouldn't help myself in the well-stocked refrigerator? I shouldn't finish off my salad with 7 vegetables that was stood up thother nite when my guests failed to show? My, it was good at 11 at nite.
Rules for falling asleep: Pitch dark, no TV, read till the words swim before your eyes.
I kept the TV on. LOL.
John Updike was being remembered on Charlie Rose. They had a panel of literati who knew everything in the world about Updike. Most novelists, they said, stop writing all forms of literature at some point in their lives except for the novel. Not so Updike. He continued writing short stories, poems, essays, book reviews. An editor at the New Yorker told him that a young writer had submitted a nice short story. Four days later, Updike faxed over a new short story he had written. Competitive up to the end.
I was lying in bed watching sans my contact lenses & couldn't make out any names of the pundits. There was an older woman with a gray pageboy hairdo named Judith Jones possibly. I was squinting and turning my head trying to read her name. She was very good. Had a deep man's voice. Reminded me of my high school English teacher Mrs. Harcourt.
Mrs. Harcourt was quite old. She wore skirts and stockings as was the fashion of the day. Our assignment was to write a term paper, a research paper. I persuaded her to let me write a short story instead. I typed it up the day before it was due. I called it The Madman and it took place down at the Cleveland Museum of Art near the huge pond with the swans in it.
The story appeared in the high school literary magazine Semanteme. I was so ashamed and so embarrassed for having written it, I could barely drag myself to school that day. Publication of that story absolutely mortified me. A Jewish girl named Leslie who had more muscular calves than I did told me she liked it. So did a few other people. I wrote some more stories when I went to Goddard College. And I wrote some poems. No one would publish them. I was aghast!
I've always had a fondness for my work.
After I woke up this morning I began singing in the kitchen. "I Get Misty Just Holding Your Hand." I pretended I was one of those Guantanemo detainees in solitary confinement who was trying to keep their sanity, so I was singing. Twenty-two hours without stimulation, according to a recent Frontline show. They begin hearing voices and cracking up.
Some people - and I am not one of them - believe you can help people by thinking good thoughts about them. Charles Williams wrote a book about this long ago which I read in high school. In high school, books were my dates, my boyfriends. I read just about every good book in the Bertram Woods Library. I'd stack em up and walk home with the books in my arms like newborn babies waiting to be born with my reading eyes.
Okay, novel-writing time!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
One big fat chicken
First it was on, then it was off. My latest dinner party this time with my son Dan and his bride-elect Nicole. The question we were all asking here in the Philadelphia area last nite was IS IT GOING TO SNOW?
I'm lying in bed last nite. It feels great to sleep at the end of a hard day of doing some really backbreaking procrastination and I wake up in the middle of the nite with the eternal question: Has it snowed? And of course, Is there a God?
The room had an unaccustomed white glow around the edges. Too groggy to get up and look, I thought a moment & decided to place a million dollar bet that it had indeed snowed. Falling back to sleep, I never knew if I was right & of course there's the sticky problem of the possibility that I could die in my sleep & not collect my winnings.
Helene, one of my dearest friends turned 80. She had to call me up to remind me. A friend of hers told her 80 is the new 60. That made her feel good. When I turned 60 a coupla years ago I said to myself, 60 is the new 80. I'm serious. I think about being dead every single day of my life esp. in the middle of the nite.
Oh, I say, pinching myself. Hot dang! I'm still alive. Only HE knows how long we're gonna live. Next morning I get up & put the fire extinguisher outside my bedroom door. My bedroom of course is the family room. The fire extinguisher means, "Come on over & see me, Scottie, when you come home from work."
I've just got to get a weather check. The driving's not bad he says. But walking home from the train, the sidewalks were slippery and slushy. If he'd walked in the street the cars would've splashed him.
Thus informed, I sent my son Dan an email titled Let's cancel dinner tonite. He wrote back and said Good idea, Mom. Stay warm!
All day cars are whizzing up and down the street with no problem. My car out front in the drive is covered over like a wedding cake which then begins melting with nice thunking noises. I call my boy back up & say, C'mon over as planned.
I begin preparing the chicken. It's a big fat oven-roaster. Haven't made one of these since I was a young wife. Looking on the Net, I found an enticing recipe called Lemon Chicken. I opened up the empty cavity of the oven-stuffer & began shoving in everything I could think of: taters, parsley, lemon slices, tangerines, an onion. I pushed and pushed to get it all in.
Immediately I pictured the octuplets from California snug in their mama's womb for seven-some months and that one little octaplut shoved up against "the horn of the uterus" just like my tangerine segment, drawing nutriments from the cord and weighing in at two solid pounds, more than any of his siblings.
Can you imagine holding a baby that tiny in your hands? Mama couldn't hold them for at least a day.
So I cooked that chicken and I cooked some big fat sweet potatoes and I made a delicious salad with a perfect avocado and a fruit salad for dessert and then the phone rang.
I always look on the dial for the name of the person who's interrupting my peace n quiet. Daniel Deming, it said. He gave me the news. I took it on the chin.
What'll I do with my big fat chicken, I asked him.
You'll figger it out, Mom. I begged and pleaded with him but they didn't feel like budging. I looked at all the neighbor houses. No. I couldn't invite anyone over.
I sat down at the table and began to serve myself. I had a thigh and a leg. They were dripping with golden-brown juices. I slit open the sweet potato and mashed it up. I'll tell you I was in heaven right here in my kitchen. That was some chicken I'd made. Its juices were a-flowing.
Then Scott let himself in. Smells delicious, he said, joining me.
I gave him the wings.
How can you eat wings, I said. There's no meat. That's the fun of it, he said, digging out the meat - and oh, that juicy fat!
There's not a bit of salt in this whole thing, I said, and yet it's tasty & delicious. How can that be?
We talked about the NYC health commissioner whose next crusade is to lower the salt content in processed foods, probably, he said, by gradually titrating down the amount without people's noticing it. He was responsible for the anti trans-fat campaign. And people think we don't need regulations. Eaten any Little Debbie Snack Cakes with Peanut Butter lately? Eight people dead. They don't clean their machines and have mold on the ceilings and airways big enough for rodents to come in.
Quick! Change the subject. Oh! A new ritual here in the diminished Deming household. Twice a day I mount my stationery bicycle and ride like the wind. It's actually my real bike but Scott bought a "stand" for it so it stays put right there on the rug. I ride for 10 minutes in the morning staring at the tube and 10 minutes at nite. I like it. I like it.
I'm lying in bed last nite. It feels great to sleep at the end of a hard day of doing some really backbreaking procrastination and I wake up in the middle of the nite with the eternal question: Has it snowed? And of course, Is there a God?
The room had an unaccustomed white glow around the edges. Too groggy to get up and look, I thought a moment & decided to place a million dollar bet that it had indeed snowed. Falling back to sleep, I never knew if I was right & of course there's the sticky problem of the possibility that I could die in my sleep & not collect my winnings.
Helene, one of my dearest friends turned 80. She had to call me up to remind me. A friend of hers told her 80 is the new 60. That made her feel good. When I turned 60 a coupla years ago I said to myself, 60 is the new 80. I'm serious. I think about being dead every single day of my life esp. in the middle of the nite.
Oh, I say, pinching myself. Hot dang! I'm still alive. Only HE knows how long we're gonna live. Next morning I get up & put the fire extinguisher outside my bedroom door. My bedroom of course is the family room. The fire extinguisher means, "Come on over & see me, Scottie, when you come home from work."
I've just got to get a weather check. The driving's not bad he says. But walking home from the train, the sidewalks were slippery and slushy. If he'd walked in the street the cars would've splashed him.
Thus informed, I sent my son Dan an email titled Let's cancel dinner tonite. He wrote back and said Good idea, Mom. Stay warm!
All day cars are whizzing up and down the street with no problem. My car out front in the drive is covered over like a wedding cake which then begins melting with nice thunking noises. I call my boy back up & say, C'mon over as planned.
I begin preparing the chicken. It's a big fat oven-roaster. Haven't made one of these since I was a young wife. Looking on the Net, I found an enticing recipe called Lemon Chicken. I opened up the empty cavity of the oven-stuffer & began shoving in everything I could think of: taters, parsley, lemon slices, tangerines, an onion. I pushed and pushed to get it all in.
Immediately I pictured the octuplets from California snug in their mama's womb for seven-some months and that one little octaplut shoved up against "the horn of the uterus" just like my tangerine segment, drawing nutriments from the cord and weighing in at two solid pounds, more than any of his siblings.
Can you imagine holding a baby that tiny in your hands? Mama couldn't hold them for at least a day.
So I cooked that chicken and I cooked some big fat sweet potatoes and I made a delicious salad with a perfect avocado and a fruit salad for dessert and then the phone rang.
I always look on the dial for the name of the person who's interrupting my peace n quiet. Daniel Deming, it said. He gave me the news. I took it on the chin.
What'll I do with my big fat chicken, I asked him.
You'll figger it out, Mom. I begged and pleaded with him but they didn't feel like budging. I looked at all the neighbor houses. No. I couldn't invite anyone over.
I sat down at the table and began to serve myself. I had a thigh and a leg. They were dripping with golden-brown juices. I slit open the sweet potato and mashed it up. I'll tell you I was in heaven right here in my kitchen. That was some chicken I'd made. Its juices were a-flowing.
Then Scott let himself in. Smells delicious, he said, joining me.
I gave him the wings.
How can you eat wings, I said. There's no meat. That's the fun of it, he said, digging out the meat - and oh, that juicy fat!
There's not a bit of salt in this whole thing, I said, and yet it's tasty & delicious. How can that be?
We talked about the NYC health commissioner whose next crusade is to lower the salt content in processed foods, probably, he said, by gradually titrating down the amount without people's noticing it. He was responsible for the anti trans-fat campaign. And people think we don't need regulations. Eaten any Little Debbie Snack Cakes with Peanut Butter lately? Eight people dead. They don't clean their machines and have mold on the ceilings and airways big enough for rodents to come in.
Quick! Change the subject. Oh! A new ritual here in the diminished Deming household. Twice a day I mount my stationery bicycle and ride like the wind. It's actually my real bike but Scott bought a "stand" for it so it stays put right there on the rug. I ride for 10 minutes in the morning staring at the tube and 10 minutes at nite. I like it. I like it.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Cream cheese & olives
Before I left for the harp & vocal concert at the library, I took out the cream cheese to let it soften on the kitchen table. Then I left, planning to meet 2 friends there, who I was 60 percent certain would not show up.
They didn't but two other friends did.
I spent a lot of time at the concert looking at the man's neck in front of me. The median age was 70. I had a lot of fun looking at necks and hairdos and making up stories about people while listening to the harp concert, that is, what I could HEAR of it in the back of the room.
The man's neck was totally wrinkled. No one else's neck was wrinkled at all. This is the back of the neck, mind you. I will ask Scott about this. He has various esoteric expertises esp. about the body. Scott is a body-builder and an athlete. I hate bragging about him but it's central to my story. If he hadn't left for work already, I'd ask him about the back of the man's neck. It was just a roadmap of wrinkles, which in our American culture are forbidden signs of aging.
Half the people in the audience are Abington Library Groupies. They come out for whatever event is playing at the library. An older man and woman were sitting next to each other. I was trying to figure out if they were married. They were talking occasionally. I decided their hairdos matched up. They were not leaning toward the other like married people do but I figured they were sick of each other and liked the freedom of pretending they were alone. And independent.
A two-year-old child was at the concert. No, he was not by himself. He was not a baby Mozart, but was toted in by his mother. That kid did not make a peep! In fact, halfway into the concert the mother rose from her seat with Baby Mozart, walked to the head of the room & plunked herself down on the floor so she & Baby Mozart could get a better view. That mother sure knew her kid.
As for me, I never once glimpsed the harpist. That's how bad my seat was. And that's why I kept up such a head-chatter with the audience. The woman sitting next to me is from our group. At first I thought it was my imagination that she was staring at me. Then I looked over and it was true. SHE WAS STARING AT ME! She gave me a little smile and I groaned inside. Was she in love with me? She has two grown boys.
One never knows.
When I got home the cream cheese was soft. I cut some olives with a scissors and plopped them amidst the cream cheese. I like to talk on the phone when I cook but it was dinnertime. So I turned on Jefferson Airplane.
Then I spread five sesame rice crackers with the cream cheese mix and began munching. SUPER! Then I buttered five more. And then five more. This was my supper. Fifteen in all and Jefferson Airplane.
I did a terrific psychiatric intervention on Saturday. I see clients any day they're free and I'm free. Before he came over I said to myself, Ruthie, are you sure you can help this man? Maybe you should send him to someone who knows what they're doing. Everyone tells me what a terrific therapist I am but you know what? I don't for a minute believe them.
The saying is, You're only as good as your last poem. I haven't written a good poem in over a week so I thought my therapy would be ineffective. Turns out I sent him an email when the session was over. I wrapped up our entire appointment in the email with clear instructions on how to proceed.
Today he wrote back. Due to my intervention he got the guidance he needed and untangled himself from his yearlong problem.
Let us eat.
They didn't but two other friends did.
I spent a lot of time at the concert looking at the man's neck in front of me. The median age was 70. I had a lot of fun looking at necks and hairdos and making up stories about people while listening to the harp concert, that is, what I could HEAR of it in the back of the room.
The man's neck was totally wrinkled. No one else's neck was wrinkled at all. This is the back of the neck, mind you. I will ask Scott about this. He has various esoteric expertises esp. about the body. Scott is a body-builder and an athlete. I hate bragging about him but it's central to my story. If he hadn't left for work already, I'd ask him about the back of the man's neck. It was just a roadmap of wrinkles, which in our American culture are forbidden signs of aging.
Half the people in the audience are Abington Library Groupies. They come out for whatever event is playing at the library. An older man and woman were sitting next to each other. I was trying to figure out if they were married. They were talking occasionally. I decided their hairdos matched up. They were not leaning toward the other like married people do but I figured they were sick of each other and liked the freedom of pretending they were alone. And independent.
A two-year-old child was at the concert. No, he was not by himself. He was not a baby Mozart, but was toted in by his mother. That kid did not make a peep! In fact, halfway into the concert the mother rose from her seat with Baby Mozart, walked to the head of the room & plunked herself down on the floor so she & Baby Mozart could get a better view. That mother sure knew her kid.
As for me, I never once glimpsed the harpist. That's how bad my seat was. And that's why I kept up such a head-chatter with the audience. The woman sitting next to me is from our group. At first I thought it was my imagination that she was staring at me. Then I looked over and it was true. SHE WAS STARING AT ME! She gave me a little smile and I groaned inside. Was she in love with me? She has two grown boys.
One never knows.
When I got home the cream cheese was soft. I cut some olives with a scissors and plopped them amidst the cream cheese. I like to talk on the phone when I cook but it was dinnertime. So I turned on Jefferson Airplane.
Then I spread five sesame rice crackers with the cream cheese mix and began munching. SUPER! Then I buttered five more. And then five more. This was my supper. Fifteen in all and Jefferson Airplane.
I did a terrific psychiatric intervention on Saturday. I see clients any day they're free and I'm free. Before he came over I said to myself, Ruthie, are you sure you can help this man? Maybe you should send him to someone who knows what they're doing. Everyone tells me what a terrific therapist I am but you know what? I don't for a minute believe them.
The saying is, You're only as good as your last poem. I haven't written a good poem in over a week so I thought my therapy would be ineffective. Turns out I sent him an email when the session was over. I wrapped up our entire appointment in the email with clear instructions on how to proceed.
Today he wrote back. Due to my intervention he got the guidance he needed and untangled himself from his yearlong problem.
Let us eat.
The well-dressed man
We were at the Starbucks Cafe at the Jenkintown PA Barnes & Noble. Robin was telling Pat and me about her job as a special ed teacher. I was sipping on a hot apple cider & had just written down Robin's contact info on a napkin. The contact of the pen & the napkin was superb. I took a small silent pleasure in this while she was talking about special ed.
Special ed? said a very well-dressed gentleman who was passing by. He wore one of those expensive woolen coats and had on a shirt & tie underneath. He looked like a man with substance. I stared hard at him trying to figure out if he was important or not. Yes, I'm like that.
Special ed, he said, quite a subject, moving over to our table.
Mind if I sit down? he asked.
We couldn't figger out what to do. In America, particularly in suburban Philly, it is unheard of for total strangers to approach you. My table all looked at me for an answer, as if I was Tuvia in the movie Defiance. (Go see it!!!)
All right, I said, sit down.
He passed by me & then I saw it.
Wait a minute! I shouted. You have a bottle of vodka in your pocket. I don't think you should sit with us.
The cafe was so crowded people were sharing tables. They were also looking at us.
The one thing in life I hate most of all is Wasting time talking to idiots. I now believed the well-dressed man was a bona fide idiot.
So he starts getting defensive.
How old are you? he asks me.
That's totally inappropriate, I said. You don't go up to someone you don't know and ask them how old they are. I want you to leave.
I'm running for president, he says.
Are you manic? I asked.
What's that? he asked.
Never mind. What's your name?
Bill, he said. What's yours?
Having learned the most important thing about him - his name - I was now ready to take action. Nearly an entire minute had passed and we were on the clock. The clock of courage and efficiency.
Bill, I'd like you to leave right now, I said.
I totally avoided eye contact. This man could turn out to be a beast. Never look a suspicious person in the eye. They can bop you with their vodka bottle.
At that moment, one of the Barnes & Noble associates came over with his swinging nametag. He was very nice.
I'm sorry to have this gentleman bother you, he said. Sir, can you come with me?
We finished up our snacks while reviewing the experience.
Special ed? said a very well-dressed gentleman who was passing by. He wore one of those expensive woolen coats and had on a shirt & tie underneath. He looked like a man with substance. I stared hard at him trying to figure out if he was important or not. Yes, I'm like that.
Special ed, he said, quite a subject, moving over to our table.
Mind if I sit down? he asked.
We couldn't figger out what to do. In America, particularly in suburban Philly, it is unheard of for total strangers to approach you. My table all looked at me for an answer, as if I was Tuvia in the movie Defiance. (Go see it!!!)
All right, I said, sit down.
He passed by me & then I saw it.
Wait a minute! I shouted. You have a bottle of vodka in your pocket. I don't think you should sit with us.
The cafe was so crowded people were sharing tables. They were also looking at us.
The one thing in life I hate most of all is Wasting time talking to idiots. I now believed the well-dressed man was a bona fide idiot.
So he starts getting defensive.
How old are you? he asks me.
That's totally inappropriate, I said. You don't go up to someone you don't know and ask them how old they are. I want you to leave.
I'm running for president, he says.
Are you manic? I asked.
What's that? he asked.
Never mind. What's your name?
Bill, he said. What's yours?
Having learned the most important thing about him - his name - I was now ready to take action. Nearly an entire minute had passed and we were on the clock. The clock of courage and efficiency.
Bill, I'd like you to leave right now, I said.
I totally avoided eye contact. This man could turn out to be a beast. Never look a suspicious person in the eye. They can bop you with their vodka bottle.
At that moment, one of the Barnes & Noble associates came over with his swinging nametag. He was very nice.
I'm sorry to have this gentleman bother you, he said. Sir, can you come with me?
We finished up our snacks while reviewing the experience.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Hot times in the ole support group!/Poem: Master of the House
Ada's Outing boasted 9 people yesterday. We watched the marvelous film Slumdog Millionaire. In the parts where they tortured the hero, I simply closed my eyes. Janet got up and went to Theater Two. Cassandra got up and went to the library.
Cassy was sitting next to me. I had an ulterior motive in sitting beside her. Last week was her first meeting. Diagnosed as bipolar one (the kind where you go off your rocker), I knew she also had borderline personality disorder but didn't know it.
How would you like it if you had cancer and the doctor refused to tell you b/c he didn't want to hurt your feelings? It would ruin your chances for survival. In the case of borderline, treatment would be delayed.
We sat in the dimly lit theater, both of us with our coats wrapped around us. Peggela had brought soft pretzels and I tore off some for me & Cassy to share, a good way to break the news to her.
Yeah, she said, I read about it in The Merck Manual and thought it sounded just like me.
It's very treatable, I said. You just need good therapy from someone who knows what they're doing.
How did you know I had it, she said.
Easy, I said. When we were at the IHOP last week you talked about yourself. You said you didn't know who you are (lack of identity), that you had major anger problems, trusted practically no one, and constantly obsessed about your abusive husband.
She looked away, deep in thought. I was sure I had done the right thing, telling her.
Three minutes after the movie began, she said she didn't feel well and was going to leave. She got up and left.
I wasn't so sure I had done the right thing. But I forced myself to have faith in what I had done. I'd thought about it the previous week & decided she was strong enough to hear it from me.
She returned in three minutes since she'd left her purse on the floor.
Listen, I said, meet us for coffee afterward and we'll talk more. She did. She announced she'd gone to the Doylestown Library and checked out some books on her psychiatric condition. Good! My intervention worked.
If it's broke, FIX IT!
When we were about to leave the theater, I reached into my pocket to put on my beret. It wasn't there.
I was SO MAD!
Every time I go to the movies, I said out loud, I lose my hat.
I went back into the theater, lay down on my belly and looked under the seats.
May I help you, said one of the ushers?
Yes, I said. Every time I go to the movies I lose my hat.
Oh! said the usher. Was it a beret?
Yes! I said. So I got my beret back. I still can't figger out why it keeps falling out of my pocket.
Why don't you keep your hat on, said my boyfriend when I told him about it.
I edited 2 stories for the Compass today. One happens to be a 10-page story called: A Mind of My Own: A Personal Account of Recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder. Its author, the pseudonymous Shae Scott, tole me she has a hard time when her pieces are edited. I explained to her I preserve the Voice of the person writing it but that the job of the narrator is to love the reader so much that you're willing to make changes so the reader can fully understand what you're writing about. Hence, I made a few minor changes for clarity. Shae has a natural poetic voice which I preserved with no problem.
She asked me to email her a poem. I will, I said, if I can find it. Here's the poem.
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE
The master of the house
looks out the screen door,
I stand and look at him
look out the screen.
A woman with loose swinging hair walks by.
We have sidewalks here on Cowbell
and mailboxes so close to the front door
you can reach right over and lift out your mail
without leaving home.
The woman looks up at the perfect moment
and meets the eyes of the master of the house
and then of mine. The three of us lock eyes
for just one moment
as she passes by our house.
The master of the house,
swivels his head
as she passes by.
Intense, alert, curious,
he has made of her passage a celebration,
an occasion of great moment
drawing all things to a stopping point
to gaze upon this unknown woman
with swinging hair
his ears swivel too
tiny ears flecked with hairs
that let the light shine through
Is he picking up walking noises
or the sound of her breath? as,
in every way, he tries to be with her
behind the screen
in the separation,
the membrane,
that parts all things,
from being one
he, too, does that,
as most of mankind does,
longing to be one
with someone
Were I to vanish
would he go to her?
would he want her
as he does me?
I remember when he came
from Brooklyn in a cage
hot and dusty from the ride,
slinking from his cage
to take a look around,
frightened
body twitching,
nervous,
yet master of his new domain.
Where was he?
Where had Dan taken him?
To live with Dan’s mother.
I came downstairs to meet him,
to learn to love him,
never had a proper introduction
to cats nor cared to
‘till now
my duty
as mistress of the house
I took my body and laid it
on the couch
lay there absorbing his
smell and fur and the delicacy
of his step
his silence
his stares
his wonderment
Let myself
soak up whatever it was
that made him different from me.
I needed to co-exist with cats. And did.
He has a thing for me
Wraps himself around me
whenever I sit or type
or try to sleep.
I let him sleep with me when I nap. I make a place for
him on my chest so he won’t crush me
so he can have me
as he wishes.
Never have I had the love of man the way I have
the love of cat. He reaches out his paw
strokes my
neck, my cheek, my closed eye.
He is good to me.
I carry him out to see my garden.
He squirms in my arms
trying to get free.
Jerking when he hears the birds chirp
I hold him tight so he won’t run away.
People love cats and sleep with cats.
Dan sleeps with cats. And women too.
But me, I only nap with the cat.
Don’t think me insensitive or cruel, I beg of you.
But I do it for the cat’s pleasure, not mine.
I enjoy the pleasure of watching him happy.
I am a woman who never met a man
I wanted to sleep with the whole night long.
Nor cat either.
Cassy was sitting next to me. I had an ulterior motive in sitting beside her. Last week was her first meeting. Diagnosed as bipolar one (the kind where you go off your rocker), I knew she also had borderline personality disorder but didn't know it.
How would you like it if you had cancer and the doctor refused to tell you b/c he didn't want to hurt your feelings? It would ruin your chances for survival. In the case of borderline, treatment would be delayed.
We sat in the dimly lit theater, both of us with our coats wrapped around us. Peggela had brought soft pretzels and I tore off some for me & Cassy to share, a good way to break the news to her.
Yeah, she said, I read about it in The Merck Manual and thought it sounded just like me.
It's very treatable, I said. You just need good therapy from someone who knows what they're doing.
How did you know I had it, she said.
Easy, I said. When we were at the IHOP last week you talked about yourself. You said you didn't know who you are (lack of identity), that you had major anger problems, trusted practically no one, and constantly obsessed about your abusive husband.
She looked away, deep in thought. I was sure I had done the right thing, telling her.
Three minutes after the movie began, she said she didn't feel well and was going to leave. She got up and left.
I wasn't so sure I had done the right thing. But I forced myself to have faith in what I had done. I'd thought about it the previous week & decided she was strong enough to hear it from me.
She returned in three minutes since she'd left her purse on the floor.
Listen, I said, meet us for coffee afterward and we'll talk more. She did. She announced she'd gone to the Doylestown Library and checked out some books on her psychiatric condition. Good! My intervention worked.
If it's broke, FIX IT!
When we were about to leave the theater, I reached into my pocket to put on my beret. It wasn't there.
I was SO MAD!
Every time I go to the movies, I said out loud, I lose my hat.
I went back into the theater, lay down on my belly and looked under the seats.
May I help you, said one of the ushers?
Yes, I said. Every time I go to the movies I lose my hat.
Oh! said the usher. Was it a beret?
Yes! I said. So I got my beret back. I still can't figger out why it keeps falling out of my pocket.
Why don't you keep your hat on, said my boyfriend when I told him about it.
I edited 2 stories for the Compass today. One happens to be a 10-page story called: A Mind of My Own: A Personal Account of Recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder. Its author, the pseudonymous Shae Scott, tole me she has a hard time when her pieces are edited. I explained to her I preserve the Voice of the person writing it but that the job of the narrator is to love the reader so much that you're willing to make changes so the reader can fully understand what you're writing about. Hence, I made a few minor changes for clarity. Shae has a natural poetic voice which I preserved with no problem.
She asked me to email her a poem. I will, I said, if I can find it. Here's the poem.
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE
The master of the house
looks out the screen door,
I stand and look at him
look out the screen.
A woman with loose swinging hair walks by.
We have sidewalks here on Cowbell
and mailboxes so close to the front door
you can reach right over and lift out your mail
without leaving home.
The woman looks up at the perfect moment
and meets the eyes of the master of the house
and then of mine. The three of us lock eyes
for just one moment
as she passes by our house.
The master of the house,
swivels his head
as she passes by.
Intense, alert, curious,
he has made of her passage a celebration,
an occasion of great moment
drawing all things to a stopping point
to gaze upon this unknown woman
with swinging hair
his ears swivel too
tiny ears flecked with hairs
that let the light shine through
Is he picking up walking noises
or the sound of her breath? as,
in every way, he tries to be with her
behind the screen
in the separation,
the membrane,
that parts all things,
from being one
he, too, does that,
as most of mankind does,
longing to be one
with someone
Were I to vanish
would he go to her?
would he want her
as he does me?
I remember when he came
from Brooklyn in a cage
hot and dusty from the ride,
slinking from his cage
to take a look around,
frightened
body twitching,
nervous,
yet master of his new domain.
Where was he?
Where had Dan taken him?
To live with Dan’s mother.
I came downstairs to meet him,
to learn to love him,
never had a proper introduction
to cats nor cared to
‘till now
my duty
as mistress of the house
I took my body and laid it
on the couch
lay there absorbing his
smell and fur and the delicacy
of his step
his silence
his stares
his wonderment
Let myself
soak up whatever it was
that made him different from me.
I needed to co-exist with cats. And did.
He has a thing for me
Wraps himself around me
whenever I sit or type
or try to sleep.
I let him sleep with me when I nap. I make a place for
him on my chest so he won’t crush me
so he can have me
as he wishes.
Never have I had the love of man the way I have
the love of cat. He reaches out his paw
strokes my
neck, my cheek, my closed eye.
He is good to me.
I carry him out to see my garden.
He squirms in my arms
trying to get free.
Jerking when he hears the birds chirp
I hold him tight so he won’t run away.
People love cats and sleep with cats.
Dan sleeps with cats. And women too.
But me, I only nap with the cat.
Don’t think me insensitive or cruel, I beg of you.
But I do it for the cat’s pleasure, not mine.
I enjoy the pleasure of watching him happy.
I am a woman who never met a man
I wanted to sleep with the whole night long.
Nor cat either.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inaugural Eve
Obama belongs to all of us. He represents the struggles of all of us as human beings. Who among us hasn't had their struggles, their own particular narrative of overcoming tragedy?
We see ourselves in this Everyman. Sure, his color appears dark at first, but soon he becomes that singular object - a man, a human being. His Inaugural speech was magnificent. Until that moment he was gentle, conciliatory, patting Bush on the shoulder, nodding at VP Cheney who rode humbled in a wheelchair with a cane between his legs.
His speech however told us what the man really had in mind. It was a bold indictment of the last eight years, no holds barred, and the solemn promise to establish new ground, the true ground that all Americans walk upon, and the reason why 2 million Americans had come to hear him in the 26 degree chill.
Obama himself is a believer. He told us our democracy did not have to die. He told us we were strong and resilient and did not have to cower with fear over our soiled economy and the blasphemy of our wars. He told us we can choose faith over fear, hope over despair.
And I believe him.
So do a few of my friends. Check out the blog of my college chum Iris A-A. And of psychiatrist Dan Hartman, MD. I imagine Sue Katz will be adding her comments of this stirring day. And perhaps Mr. Weinstein will divulge his thoughts tomorrow.
We see ourselves in this Everyman. Sure, his color appears dark at first, but soon he becomes that singular object - a man, a human being. His Inaugural speech was magnificent. Until that moment he was gentle, conciliatory, patting Bush on the shoulder, nodding at VP Cheney who rode humbled in a wheelchair with a cane between his legs.
His speech however told us what the man really had in mind. It was a bold indictment of the last eight years, no holds barred, and the solemn promise to establish new ground, the true ground that all Americans walk upon, and the reason why 2 million Americans had come to hear him in the 26 degree chill.
Obama himself is a believer. He told us our democracy did not have to die. He told us we were strong and resilient and did not have to cower with fear over our soiled economy and the blasphemy of our wars. He told us we can choose faith over fear, hope over despair.
And I believe him.
So do a few of my friends. Check out the blog of my college chum Iris A-A. And of psychiatrist Dan Hartman, MD. I imagine Sue Katz will be adding her comments of this stirring day. And perhaps Mr. Weinstein will divulge his thoughts tomorrow.
Inauguration Day!
I am glued to my TV! Remote in hand, I switch from CBS to ABC to CNN for the earliest and best live coverage. Did you see Barack & Michelle enter the new presidential limousine? What a couple. Wonder what they had for breakfast. Do you think they fell asleep last night? Can't wait to hear the Inaugural Address and to catch my first glimpse of Sasha and Malia. What a boost it gives grandparents that their grandmother is coming to live with them.
The Times did a nice video on one particular Tuskegee Airman, a 92-year-old gentleman Spann Watson who was personally invited by the Obama Team to attend the ceremonies. An extremely well-spoken gentleman, he was shown being photographed among young people in a crowd who had no concept about the magnificence that is the Tuskegee Airmen.
Although Obama himself will be the president, I think of his ascending to the presidency as sweeping in with millions at his feet. For some reason, it's not just Obama but scores of others who are governing with him, as if he's a transcendental figure representing all of us - all Americans and all the citizens of the world - whether we voted for him or not.
The Times did a nice video on one particular Tuskegee Airman, a 92-year-old gentleman Spann Watson who was personally invited by the Obama Team to attend the ceremonies. An extremely well-spoken gentleman, he was shown being photographed among young people in a crowd who had no concept about the magnificence that is the Tuskegee Airmen.
Although Obama himself will be the president, I think of his ascending to the presidency as sweeping in with millions at his feet. For some reason, it's not just Obama but scores of others who are governing with him, as if he's a transcendental figure representing all of us - all Americans and all the citizens of the world - whether we voted for him or not.
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